


Wandering Hearts

by RavensWing



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: 17th Century AU, And There Are Serious Family Dynamic Issues, Backwoods Justice, Cabin Full of Angst, Except They Are SUPER Fun In This Story, F/M, Have I mentioned this is a big time AU?, No Frohana, No One Talks About Anything, No One is Functional In This, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Nordic Hillbillies, Oops I got hurt and now you are taking care of me, Opposite of Frohana, PTSD, Protective!Kristoff, Serious Communication Issues, Ten Layer Deep Sexual Tension, This Is Why We Don't Have Nice Things, and really sharp, except maybe not???, fake married, maybe they are REALLY married!?, or happy things, secrets secrets are no fun, so don't read it if you like nice things, super slow burn, things aren't what they seem, this is really long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-10-05 11:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 109,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10306094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensWing/pseuds/RavensWing
Summary: “Elsa, please, I can’t live like this anymore!”“Then leave.”She does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all stems from the idea that Anna confronts Elsa about the castle being closed all of the time a year before coronation day. It goes down very much like the conversation in the ballroom, just with less Hans, and Anna actually leaving. What would this story be like if Anna’s main objective was to get away from her sister instead of be with her sister? 
> 
> Cross-posting from tumblr. Art by Killa-7. Look her up on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Killa7Art/

She has been running for a while now. Her last week has been all not staying long in any one place, catching breath, sleep, and food in staggered intervals, and trying to get far enough away that no one could ever find her.

So when he carries her to his cabin in the wood she does not imagine she will stay for long. Maybe just long enough to recover from the ripening bruises on her ribs and wrists, from the tang on blood staining her tongue, from the agony in her ankle, from the ripping pain between her legs. She will stay until her head clears, till her muscles find solid ground, and she is not quite so _empty._

He sets her on a stool by his fire and asks after family, after her home - someone to whom or somewhere to which he can take her - but she shakes her head. She had buried her parents two years ago and has been alone ever since.

 _Alone_ \- not entirely the truth, but close enough. Two, in her experience, has always been lonelier than one. That thought slams into her as hard as any of the fists she’d felt in the woods. This is the first time she has slowed down long enough to remember just why she was running in the first place.

 _Then **leave**_ -

He holds her then as she cries, deep sobs rolling out of her like the tide, and thick arms anchor her through the shock and aching despair that finds her no matter how far she runs.

He asks nothing then, thinking he knows why she weeps. In part he does, but in whole he never will. Yes, she weeps for what those men took from her in the woods with dirty hands and stinking breath; and yes, she weeps for the loss of her parents; but more she weeps for the sister who had taken herself from her. She weeps for a sister who lives but treats her like she is dead and she hopes her sister is happier now that she isn’t there to be a thorn in her side.

They sleep that night as uneasy strangers, her in a narrow mat that smelled of smoke and man and he on a pile of pelts by the fire ring in the center of the room, and she thinks she will leave in the morning. Kindness only goes so far and she needs to keep moving. When she jolts to consciousness, the sun is already awake and so is he. She tries to sit up but hurts run deeper than she imagined they could. It is like she can still feel the men from the woods all over her, _in_ her, and she sucks a ragged breath.

He says she must stay, just till she can move properly, and she starts to protest, standing up too fast. A dizzy stabbing pain from her side, her ankle, all but renders her unconscious, and oh - yes. Fine. She eases herself back to the hard mat. She will rest a day, just the day, and then be on her way because she still has not outrun the lonely.

**…..**

One day becomes two before she finds the strength to pull herself off the cot and join him for a meal. Each slow movement is a reminder of just what happened and hunger battles nausea when she sits again.

They are silent for awhile, then:

“What is your name?” He asks across the table where they share a simple fare of bread and cheese, and the question sends jolts of ice down her spine.

She blinks.

She has not stayed anywhere long enough yet for anyone to bother asking her that. Her plan had always been to run until her name no longer meant anything to anyone, but she knows she is not there yet. She is not good enough at lying to sustain an alias, not quick enough on her feet to create a convincing lie.

Panic sets hard and cold in her chest and, “I -  I do not have one.”

He regards her for a moment like he cannot quite suss out what she means. Heat grows up her neck, her cheeks, her ears, and she blushes bright beneath her bruises.

“You have no name.” He tilts his head to the side. “What? Your parents forgot to name you upon your birth?”

“No. They named me.” Even her fingers are blushing. “It - I cannot - I cannot tell you.”

He taps long, blunt fingers on the table. “Is it so ugly?”

"No.”

“Do you not favor it?”

“No.”

“Is it odd?”

“No!” She shakes her head, skin blistering with heat.

“Then _why_?” The timbre of his voice deep and insistent.

“Because I _cannot_.”

His expression shifts at that, mind clicking behind deep round eyes, and she squirms under his gaze. Then he leans back, crosses his arms over his broad chest, and regards her with calculated mischief.

“All right, if you aren’t going to tell me your name, I’m just going to call you what I want.” His lips curling into a smirk and he points at her hair. “Sound good, _Logi_?”

Her hand finds the ends of her tangled hair - _ow_ \- and even her scalp hurts . _Logi_ \- she thinks when the pain subsides, the name as appropriate as it is cutting - _a flame_.

  **…..**

He tries to fetch a healer, but she refuses. She is not hurt that badly, she insists, and his look says he disagrees, but he does as she says. To tell the truth, she disagrees as well, but she cannot risk calling on a healer of any kind while still so close to Arendelle on the off chance they will recognize her. She cannot be found. She cannot go back.

Instead, he helps her take off her dress to examine how her wounds are healing. Large fingers pull at intricate fasteners, and she quakes to recall the last hands that ripped at her clothes. Her breath comes in pants, bright and stinging in her throat, and she falters.

His hands stop to steady her, warm and firm around her arms.

"Easy, _Logi_ _._ ” He says, voice low and focused. “Easy, I have you.”

 **…..**  

He has things to do outside and she is still too sore to do more than sit and hobble a few steps at a time. She tried to accompany him today, to stand outside in the late summer afternoon light, but her body protests so much she is forced to lay down in the grass alongside his cabin while he does chores.

The hours drag on and there is not much for her to do besides sit and heal. She drifts in and out of consciousness, the sweet bite of earth tickling her nose, and she finds herself passing the time by guessing just how he ended up here all alone - and why anyone would ever choose that.

  **…..**

His name is Kristoff, but it will not stick in her mind. It does not fit him.

She remembers as she lays still on his bed how solid he was when she pressed her tears into his shoulder. She thinks of fists that turned to boulders and broke the men who tried to break her. She thinks of this mountain where he lives, the stony silence in which he sits by the fire each night polishing his rondel and in her mind she calls him _Bjarg_.

 _Bjarg:_ the rock - her rock - and she smiles.

**…..**

She pushed too hard today, trying to clean up around the cabin while he worked outside, and now she stares at the thatch ceiling with new aches piled on top of old. She has felt pain before, broken a bone or two, but never like this, never by someone else’s hand, and somehow that makes it worse.

It is not just her body that is broken.

She stares at the door to the cabin in the moonlight, closed and bolted for their protection, and remembers just how much it hurt when the devils had pinned her to the earth. She still feels how they had hit her when she struggled, when she screamed, and it is like they broke something inside of her. She feels the shame of how she had stopped fighting.

There, in a stranger’s cabin, is the first time she acknowledges the merits of doors staying closed.

  **…..**

On the fourth day, he leaves.

 _Ice harvesting. You will be safe here until I come back_ , he says and is gone before dawn. She wonders just how far he has to go to find ice in summer. Far enough that there would be no chance of being back before sundown, surely.

She thinks that now is the perfect time to keep running - to disappear like a shadow in sunlight. She is still too close to Arendelle, to the sister who does not want her but will not let her leave, and she has burdened this stranger’s hospitality enough. So she takes what little she can call her own, drops some coin on the table, and leaves forever.

Or at least she tries to.

**…..**

It takes her longer than expected to find the main road. Between her broken bones and disorientation, the sun is high when she stumbles upon it. She knows the main road is not the wisest path to travel, especially when striving to remain undetected, but her injuries make trekking through the brambles impossible.

Her hand blisters against her broken-branch-cum-cane as she presses on, pressing as far to the edge of the road as she can, and pausing often to rest aching bones.

Once, just once, while resting she thinks of turning back, but not to Arendelle. She never thought of going back to that life of certain tedium and misery, but back to the small stone cabin. She thinks of the cold walls wrapping around her like a hug. It is too small to ever be swallowed alive like she was at the palace, and she could get used to that. Then she hears a horse and ducks behind a tree as the other travelers passed.

No. She had to keep moving, had to find a life where she could have her own name without fear and not be so alone she doubted her own existence.

It feels like she has traveled a hundred miles by the time the sun sinks low in the sky, but she knows she is lucky if she has made it one. That is when he finds her. She sees him up ahead, riding on the back of a reindeer, and she tries to hide before he spots her. Using her stick she cleaves her way into the deep undergrowth, her body screaming and slowing every step, and he is upon her in no time.

“What are you doing?” He sounds tired in a way she has not heard in his voice before, but she refuses look back to see if she can deduce the reason.

“I am walking.” She bats at the vegetation with her stick, motion truncated by pain.

“Through the forest.”

“Yes.” She bites her lips as she hops forward a step.

“With a broken ankle.“

“I have my walking stick.” She steps again and stumbles.

“You are going to get yourself killed.”

She is tired to the core, every part of her shaking with exhaustion and fear, and she has no room for his condescension - his passive insistence.

“I am very grateful to you for all of your help - but I am fine. I am able to see to myself from here. Thank you.”

For one second he is silent and she thinks he is going to leave her. She does not have time to consider if she is glad or disappointed by that because she takes a determined whack at a bush and loses her balance. Her arms flail, seeking purchase, but find none. She topples back onto the earth.

She did not know falling could hurt like that. Something between a shriek and a sob rips from her throat. She tries to wrestle back up, but her bones and muscles fail to cooperate.

Then he is there, a looming shadow in the fading light, and he hoists her up as if she weighs nothing.

"I said I am fine!” She tries to jerk out of his grip, but the aches of breaks, tears, and bruises make her ineffectual.

He pulls her closer to stifle her thrashing, arms so careful and firm all at once, and she can feel the hard outline of his thighs against her stomach. She looks at his face then, her first good look at his face since they have reunited, and sees the fresh cut above his eyebrow, a bruise blooming on his cheekbone. Those wounds had not been there before and her heart shifts at the sight of them.

“You are coming with me.“ It is clear he is in no mood for a discussion, still…

"You cannot make me.”

It only takes one swift move from him before his arm is behind her knees hoisting her feet off the ground. He is stepping back towards his reindeer with her in tow before she is even settled in his arms. He sets his eyes dead ahead.

“Wanna bet?”

 **…..**  

She rode to his cabin on his reindeer with him. Her back pressed to his chest, his arms firm against her sides, and she knows resistance is futile. She wants to speak - to fill the rough silence with meaning - but nothing comes. She cannot explain, and she knows her silence means he will not ask, so she steadies herself against the shift of the reindeer beneath her and waits.

When they are back at the cabin, having deposited her safely on the bed, he looks work-weary and bleak. He moves the way that she feels, stiff and aching, and she remembers the cut on his face, the bruises. She wonders just what ice harvesting entails but does not ask. If she has learned anything it is that questions begat questions, and tonight she has no answers.

Instead she insists on taking the pelts by the fire because this has gone far enough, because she ran away and caused him extra grief, and he looks like he is tempted. Instead he shakes his head and looks are the ground.

“No. I will be fine.” He hides a wince as he rolls his shoulders. “I am just going to put Sven up and then I will be back to sleep. I advise you do the same.”

He says and she nods, understanding the power of those arms more now that they carried her hard and close against his chest on the back of his reindeer. _Bjarg_ , she thinks. His strength is not arguable. That makes his wounds all the more troubling.

He stops at the door before he goes to complete what he must and looks her dead in the eye.

“I know not what demons are chasing you, _Logi_ , that would make you so scared you run when you cannot walk, but you needn’t be frightened while you are here. So long as you are in my care, you are safe.”

He is gone before she has a chance to respond.

**…..**

They never talk about her attempt to disappear. A week passes (including another ice harvesting trip upon which she neither runs nor comments on the injuries with which he returns) and she grows both stronger in body and spirit each day.

She sits at the table, stripping roots, while he completes the nightly routine of polishing his rondel. She has learned that this is a time for silence, but it sits uneasy on her bones tonight and she speaks.

“Why do you live alone?”

He looks up from his seat, dark eyes angled and narrowed before he refocuses on his task. “Because I do.”

“But why?”

“Because I dislike when people ask me questions.”

“Oh.” She has the feeling she should stop there, but she does not. “Does that mean you dislike me?”

“I never said that.”

“But you implied it.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

He heaves a sigh and meets her eyes.

“ _Logi_ ,” he says his name for her like a warning, but she does not heed it.

“Why did you bring me back?” She asks and his jaw clenches, energy sparking at her inquisition. “If you so dislike the company of others, why not let me leave this place?”

“Because you left me no choice!” He rakes a frustrated hand through long blonde hair, both of them caught of guard by the intensity of it.

Her fingers still over her work. He grips the handle of his rondel. Both pull tight like they are afraid to breathe. Then he exhales.

“I am responsible for you now. Do you understand that, _Logi_?” He turns the blade over in his palms, gleaming sharp in the light. “I have been ever since I pulled out from under those rutting bastards and I will be until you have enough sense to not to go walking through the woods alone, lame and unarmed. So leave it.”

She does not ask any more questions that night.

**…..**

They do not speak beyond pleasantries for the next week but, somehow, it feels like more genuine contact than she has felt in years.

**…..**

When she is well enough, she makes dinner for them.

It is simple. She lacks the resources she had back at the palace (hovering chefs to fix her mistakes whenever she invaded their sanctuary), but he seems pleasantly surprised when he comes in that evening to the smell of potato stew.

“What’s this?” His smile flusters her.

“I cooked. Food, I mean. I cooked food.” She gestures to the pot over the fire with jerky arms. The way he looks at her is unfamiliar and it makes her nervous. She whirls back to the fire to escape his gaze. “Wash up! It’s ready to eat.”

A few minutes later and she sets a wood bowl in front of him at the table. His expression flashes her to her favorite painting in the palace, one where a man casts an adoring gaze at a woman, and she is not sure that is what he is doing but it is enough to make her breath come short. She retreats to the other side of the table where her bowl waits. Separated by the span of wood, she feels her heart rate settle back to its normal rhythm and she puts the painting out of her mind.

“Do you like it?” She is surprised how important it is for him to like it, how much she needs to hear him say it. She bites her lip against the urge to ask again and keep asking until he answers.

“Like it?” His mouth twitches up as he swallows, and she cannot tell if the smile is for the food or for her. “I love it.”

**…..**

She is asleep again outside on the grass beside the cabin, not able to be useful but unwilling to languish inside, when he shakes her shoulders.

She screams awake, his hands unfamiliar while she sleeps, and he steadies her as she wakes for the nightmare. When she finds this reality, sound and proper, he releases her shoulders, but stays closer than is strictly necessary.  

”’S'time to go in.“ She sees the darkening sky and understanding in his face. She had been dreaming about _them_.

He helps her up and inside, his hands linger at her waist much longer than need be. She leans into him.

****…..** **

She is sewing patches onto one of his shirts by the fire, not because he asked her to, but because she begged him for something to do. Her fingers move quickly, stitches never as small or precise as her needlepoint instructor had tried to make them, but sturdy and efficient. He is polishing the blade of his rondel to a gleam, large hands moving expertly over the sharp edges.

Here in the soft glow of firelight, she is learning how silence can be something other than a weapon. A creeping understanding is taking hold in her mind that silence can, in some cases, be comfortable - intimate. The frantic need for words is drying up as she realizes that no matter when she speaks, he will respond instead of remain silent. That alone sends a brilliant shimmer through her blood.  

He looks up and catches her watching him. His mouth pulls up at one corner and his eyes narrow in amusement.

“Did no one ever teach you it is not polite to stare? Were you raised in a barn?” The spark in his eye shows the laughter he is holding back.

“No. I was not raised in a barn! I was raised -” She catches herself just in time, words dying in her throat just as the laughter died in his eyes because no matter how much time passes, there are secrets between them. She looks down at the shirt in her hands, picking at edges. “I was not raised in a barn.”

The silence is back, but it is not easy. It is full and humming with questions they both know she will not answer, cannot answer, and she wishes she could lie.

She startles when his hand brushes her cheek, bright red and burning, because they have never touched like this. In the few times he has touched her, it has always been laced with practicality, never touch just for the sake of contact. The feeling of it, feather light, sends her blood skittering through her veins. The incongruence of his strength and restraint drags her eyes back to his.

“Your bruises are almost gone.” He says, callused pads of fingers slip over jagged edges, and she is holding her breath. “The swelling, too.”

“They are?” She has not seen a mirror since she left the palace, has not thought much beyond the pain of the wounds sure to be crowding her freckles, but she is glad the visible evidence is leaving now for good. Maybe then the memory of how she got them would fade as well.

“Yes.” His voice sounds different than she remembers ever hearing, or maybe it is just the rushing blood in her ears. “A month ago, I would not have been able to tell, but now…” He is nothing short of reverent in this instant. “Now you look far from someone who was raised in a barn, so very far.”

She laughs, a short burst to relieve the tension curling in her stomach at his nearness, because she has never really experienced a compliment.

“Where does it look I was raised?” She fishes where she should not, biting her lip and praying he will guess correctly as much as she prays he will not.

His eyes scour her face, eyes skirting across her lips, and a dusty heat spreads over his cheekbones. Oh - she has never seen that.

“Somewhere -” he starts, eyes glancing at her hair, and he pauses. His hand falls back to his lap and it feels like a part of her chest rips away with it. “Somewhere else.”

The silence comes back, thick and impenetrable, and lasts well after the lamps are extinguished.

  **…..**

A month and a half has passed since he carried her through his door the first time and she is well enough that it does not hurt to breathe, to walk, to exist. She follows him outside that morning and attempts to be of more use than as a cook and seamstress. No naps in the sunlight today, no sir, she would be useful despite her limp and stiffness. After all of his heroics and hospitality, it seems like the least she can do.

In the shed beside the stone cabin, he shows her how to muck stalls. She thinks of the stables at the castle with its grand doors and grander horses as she watches him shovel out old straw and dung. She had spent countless hours there with her horse, had seen the stable boys do just as this man does, but she never imagined that one day she would take up this task. There are certain things princesses do not do.

 _But you are no longer a princess_. She thinks, but the thought is not bleak as she expects. It is freeing.

When he hands her the shovel, challenge in his eyes, she takes it with a grin.

On the first scoop - down, out, up - she feels each crack in her straining ribs and sucks in a breath. She hates to show how much it hurts still, that need for approval still rooted deep, and takes four good shovel-fulls out before she slumps over the shovel, spent.

Her hand wraps around to her side, pressing against the epicenter of her pain, waiting for it to dull. He lets her rest a moment, quiet with a shoulder against the wall just watching, and she meets his eyes. She expects a smirk, laughter at her ineptitude, but finds something else. They are warm, dark, and her throat goes dry to look at them.

“It - you know - when - it - it can - I mean - the thing where two people -” His eyes skim down to her screaming ribs and the intensity of his gaze makes it feel like someone is punching her again. She cannot find her breath. “It can be  - different. It can - I mean - it is a good thing. It can be a great thing.”

She knows he is referencing more than the lingering bruises and pain, but the act of it. The rutting thing he had interrupted in the woods with fists of iron and she has spent more than one moment wondering just how soft those hard hands could be, wonders what it could be like to just be touched.

She has waited her whole life to be touched, to be wanted, and she is not going to miss this chance if he is is offering.

“Can it?” She stands on the edge, his eyes say he will catch her, and she jumps. “Show me.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 _Show me_ , she had said a week ago, breathless with the idea of what that could mean, and she thought he would. Leaning, him against the wall, her against the shovel, among the muck and straw and she really thought he would.

His gaze flickered up to her hair, back to her to her eyes, then down to the ground and he had said: _No… not today_. He stood up then and took back the shovel. _I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you go back inside._

Not an order, but not a question either, and she had gone mostly because it had stunned her. It smacked of the rejection that sent her running in the first place, but she knew it was different. With Elsa, it had been _not ever_. With him, it was _not today_ , and she could work with that.

Because after today, there was always tomorrow.

**…..**

Nine tomorrows come and go and she does not mention the promise in the shed - _not today_ \- but it is not forgotten. It lives on the back of her tongue waiting for the perfect moment to remind him that _this_ is not today. It is tomorrow’s great grandchild seven times over, but she is coming to understand that tomorrows are infinite, but she has experience in waiting. She is adept in it.

On this tomorrow, he takes her out to harvest herbs.

He teaches her about yarrow root and its blossoms, how the proper paste can staunch bleeding and a tea from its blossoms can cure fevers. Fleabane rids the chest of bad humors when cold weather comes. Horehound mixed to a plaster can relief the wheezing tempers of spring.

“And witches.” She adds as they tramp through the undergrowth, attempting to not seem so uneducated in the wake of his knowledge. “Horehound can keep a witch’s charm from sticking.”

She carries a wide, flat basket on her hip - he another on his - and his broad hand grips the brim of his tighter at her words.  

“There are no witches in these parts, _Logi_ _._ Best put that foolishness out of your mind.” His consonants are sharp enough to cut, and the silence that follows rings a pall for their conversation.

…..

She thinks of leaving. Her body is nearly healed, her mind more sound than it has been, and it is time. She needs to leave. The days grow shorter as autumn digs her roots deep, and Anna knows that when the snow comes, she will be stranded here in this stone cabin with one room, no windows, and no books.

She misses books. Whenever she lands, she thinks, she should make sure it has books.

She needs to leave. For his sake as well as for hers because if anyone found her… She needs to leave.

Then she looks across the room and sees him, the mountain, the rock, and her thoughts stutter.

 _Not today_. She hears his voice whisper, and she thinks of tomorrow.

…..

He goes harvesting for three days, his worries of her disappearing in his absence beginning to abate, and her worries of what ‘ice harvesting’ means are only beginning. Upon his return one eye is swollen shut, the opposite ear distended in a strange mix of bruises and cuts, and the way he moves tells her there is more she cannot see.

“What happened to you?” She is away from her stool, from the dress she is making from fabrics he had given her, in an instant.

His smiles says it hurts to do so, and he says, “Just some things I picked up here or there.”

…..

She hesitates to call it a routine, because she knows in her heart she cannot stay long enough to honor that title, but she also knows that is what it is no matter what she calls it.

He goes out for chores in the morning, she stays inside and cleans whatever she is able and cooks the noontime meal. He comes in when he is ready and they eat in companionable silence punctuated only by outbursts of her observations and his warm indulgence of them. Then he goes back out, and she goes with him. 

Sometimes she tries to keep up with him as he mucks stalls, reinforces rotted beams, and fells trees for lumber - but usually she cannot despite her best efforts. So she does her best to harvest herbs the way he taught her (she’s always picking the wrong thing), to finds bee hives’ to harvest later for candle-making (a skill she is is yet learning), and to try her best to do laundry (she still has difficulty dragging water from the stream nearby). 

_Do not stray too far._ He tells her. _These woods are dark and deep._

 _S_ he wonders just how far is too far, but she does not ask. Instead, she tries her best to assimilate to this strange life.

She tries.

He appreciates.

That night at dinner he looks at her across the table.

“What is your name?” He ask like it is simple, like it is not everything she cannot tell him, and he stares.

She is red beyond her hair and it feels like the first time all over again. “Does your memory fail you?”

A moment passes where he looks at her, something sad and dark hazes his eyes, but all he does is shake his head.

“Ah well. I had hoped….”

.….

One tomorrow he comes out of the shed to see her doing her best to hang laundry on a wash line he had placed before her time. Her arms barely reach, but he does not offer to help and she does not ask. Instead he folds his arms as she clips his spare shirt, her other drawers to the line, and just watches. She keeps going until her basket is empty, all of the items are blowing in the late autumn wind, and crows triumphantly.

“Ha!" That feeling of accomplishment is washed away the moment her eyes lock with his across the lawn.

Her heart does a funny thump-thumping. It is the kind of thump-thumping where she is not sure if it is a good thing or a bad thing, but either way it feels like her heart is trying to re-break every single one of her ribs. 

He drifts toward her like he expects her to run if his approach is too direct. Like he expects her to spook and bite him, and it surprises her to realize that it is a possibility. It is not that she wants to run, to bite, but a funny energy is building under her skin at each of his steps and she is afraid she might explode if she does not do _something_.

One broad hand slips forward, palm up - an offering - and she watches it as it turns and slides along her waist. Through the thick fabric of her bodice, her corset, his hand is but a whisper of warmth. His body follows his hand, just as slow.

 _Not today_ \- she thinks, but it is fourteen tomorrows since today, and maybe that is what this is.

“Do they still bother you?”

She looks up at the sound of his voice to find him looking down at her and she gasps at his nearness. The sharp inhalation make her ribs ache against his hand, still not quite what they should be, but she knows he is not asking after her bones. He is asking about _them._

She wants to tell him everything is fine, that she has not thought of them in _days_ , but the words never come and the skin pulls at the corner of his eyes. The hand on her waist withdraws and he steps back.

“Not today, then.” He says, and he walks down through the woods towards the stream, leaving her in a silent scream behind him.

…..  
Another tomorrow.

Eighteen by her count, but she has never been known for precision, so she is willing to give a little either way. He is just back from another ice harvesting venture, his body worse for wear though he will never admit it, and he retreats to the shed as is his usual fashion.

She was in the garden when he arrived, and there she stays after he goes into hiding.

She likes gardening, likes the feel of the earth between her fingers, and she has practically taken over full care of the plot of land behind the shed. She is on her knees pulling what she hopes are weeds when he finishes with Sven and comes around to find her.

He ruts one shoulder against the shed, keeping a safe distance, and she pauses to look at him.

“What?” She feels nervous under his unraveling gaze.

"If you will not tell me your name, will you tell me from where you come?” He asks, arms crossed over his chest.

She feels the heat in her face again, bright red and damning, and she looks down at the dirt. She wants to tell him - she does - but she cannot.

“I - I come from nowhere.”

He is quiet and when she looks back up at him his eyes are watching something in the distance. She does not realize she is clenching her fists until the bite of her nails cut her palm. He pushes off the wall and kicks at the dirt with his toe.

“Then I suppose we come from the same place.“

…..

On the twenty-fifth tomorrow, a knock comes at his door.

She is sweeping. He is fashioning arrows. Both stop at the noise, but for different reasons.

Her heart comes up hard in her throat. What if it is a guardsmen come looking for her? What if it is her sister?  She knows neither outcome is good, but he proceeds to the door as if nothing is unusual.

She thinks to stop him, to warn him, to hide, but there is nothing to be done when he open his door.

The exchange is fast and low, her fingers clutch tight to the broom-handle, and a tall lean man enters.

He is neither in formal court apparel nor guardsman uniform, and that is enough to help her relax. Well, at least almost, until the iceman turns from the door and gives her a look that says she best pay attention.

She does.

“This is cotter Raggi. See you fetch him some ale while I provide him his order of ice, _wife_.”

The last word sends heat from head to hoof, but she dares not betray him. She knows the implication of their situation, the delicate balance upon which they tread (more delicate than he could ever know) and she treads lightly.

“Yes - yes - of course.” She staggers over the words, and he gives her a glare that keeps her from saying anything more.

He heads out the door just as Raggi assumes the seat at the table that _Bjarg_ traditionally occupies. For a moment she stands frozen. It has been months since she has seen anyone other than her unlikely housemate, months since the reality of discovery had been vivid in her mind, and for a moment she cannot move.

“What of that ale then?” Raggi says, voice surprisingly deep for such a slight man, and she snaps to attention.

The ale is in the shed and understands now. _Bjarg_ wants her to follow him outside, needs her to, because they have never spoken of what to do in moments like this. She had never meant to stay this long.

“Yes. Yes.” She collects a mug from their sparse selection of dishes on the shelf. “I will return shortly.”

She marches out the door and to the shed, her legs so stiff beneath her skirts she can hardly bend them. Raggi did not know her, he had no reason to, but if he had… it takes all she has to not drop the mug and start running then and there until her legs collapsed beneath her and her lungs starved for air. She should not still be here.

She is shaking so hard by the time she makes it to the shed, she can barely walk.

His hands collect her close as soon as she enters the familiar warmth of the shed and pushes the door shut with their bodies. The swiftness is startling, her head bouncing back with the force, and she gasps. Her eyes find his in the semi-darkness, the only light is where the sun filters through the cracks, but there is no mistaking the urgency she sees there. In the tight space between the door and his chest, her mind flashes to a different time she was trapped by a heavy body. Her heart does a funny thump-thumping again, but she tries to focus past that.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He asks, face so close she cannot see it all at once, the question as bewildering as his proximity. 

He sees her reticence and sighs.

“Listen to me then,” His face so close she can feel his breath excruciating against her lips. “If you want me to be able to keep you safe you must pretend to be blood of my blood. From this moment on, while you live under my roof, if anyone else comes then you are to say you are my wife. Do you understand me?”

She nods. She understands. One of her hands rests over his heart and finds hard flesh beneath it, finds warmth, and she feels his heart hammering just as hard as hers.

“Tell him your name is Ragna Ergison Bjorgman. Nothing else. Give no explanation of how you came to be my wife. Tell him nothing beyond that name. Do you understand?” He holds her closer than she has ever dared hoped he would, and she finds difficult in keeping focus with him so warm and close. “Can you do that, _Logi_? Can you do that and keep yourself safe?”

It takes her a moment to understand just what he is saying, just what his words imply, but she does. She may be naive, but she is not stupid. A woman living alone with an iceman would raise questions she could not answer and she knows many audiences would be much less patient than her _B_ _jarg_ has been.

“Yes.” She says again even if she is uncertain that is the truth but she will agree to almost anything when he presses this close.

“Tell me -” A hand tightens on her waist. “Tell me what your name is.”

She knows the answer she must give and the answer he wants are different. 

“Ragna Ergison Bjorgman.” She says, and he lets her go like she had burned him.

She stumbles back against the door behind her, blinking into the shadow of his face, unable to make out his expression.

“Good. Yes. Now go take him his ale.” He says, but she notes the barest quaver in his voice, or she is just hearing what she wants to hear.

Either way, by the time she fetches the ale, he is gone.

…..

After the cotter leaves, she breathes.

He seemed pleasant enough despite being disproportionate. He was tall and thin, legs and arms jutting out at odd angles, and a poor conversationalist at best. He did not ask many questions, which left her sitting on her hands - waiting for him to leave - because all she had was answers.

She had answers on top of answers, none of which she could share, and in the doldrums she wants to confess everything. She wants to tell him who she really is, to tell him all of the things she never dared tell _Bjarg_ , but she does not. Instead she sits, offers to fetch more ale when his mug runs dry, and thinks of the new name he had given her.

 _Ragna_   _Ergison_   _Bjorgman_.

The name is specific and cutting. It had rolled from his tongue without thought of pretense. It is a name that means something to him. Can it be that she may mean something to him also? 

She wraps her arms around her middle to combat the chill that shoots down her spine at that idea and thinks of leaving.

…..

When he comes back in from the delivery, he is a black cloud, thick and brewing. She feels the heat of electricity shooting off of him and it draws her to her feet. Her mouth goes dry.

He takes two steps and stretches out his hand.

“Wear this.”

On his palm lies a ring, a simple circle of braided gold, and it glints accusingly. She looks up at him, slack jawed and unsure, because she never meant for it to go this far. She never meant to stay this long.

He does not entertain her hesitation, does not understand it, cannot let because she will not let him.

“You will be under no wifely obligation to me, I will not touch you, but you must wear it. If you are to abide here - if you are to bear my name and my protection - then you must wear this.” He nods his head down towards the ring in his palm and her mind catches on those words.

 _Bear his name_. Of course. When she could not give him her name - he gave her his. The name he gave her, throat tight in the dark shed, was his. _Bjorgman._ She could hold that name like a shield and she felt the chill again. 

When she does not move, frozen in revelation, he takes her hand in his and presses the ring into her soft palm.

“I will not ask you more than you can give, but I will ask you this. Wear this ring.”

He curls the fingers over the metal band, pressing firm before he releases, and then he leaves.

She stands for a minute, dumbstruck and numb, before she slips the ring over her shaking finger.

…..

After he left, he stayed gone for four days, and returns black and blue.

She asks nothing and he says just as much, but when he sees the ring around her finger he gives her a grim smile.

…..

The tomorrows have all blended together into an endless litany of _not todays_ and, in the absence of visitors, she is starting to get comfortable again. Life proceeds in the same unspoken rhythm it had before.

He takes her to a heath and says one of his favorites. She is prone to agree. Lush meadows overlook stony crags in such an abundant way that you can almost ignore that the world is ripe with death. The autumn wraps around them like a cloak, warm and bright, and she is glad for the winter dress she has been sewing (even if she has made more mistakes than she can count).

“This is the best place to find rosemary.” He says, picking at a pungent overgrown bush, “It’s good for near everything that could ail you.”

He hands her a sprig, the scent of it wafting, and she wonders.

“Where did you learn all of this?” She asks, twirling the rosemary beneath her nose.

“My mother.” He does not elaborate, and she wants to ask more, but she is learning the fine dance of what she can tell versus what she wants to know. She is careful to not upset that balance.

"She sounds wonderful.” She says instead of asking, biting the inside of her cheek against the things she wants to say.

He picks another sprig and cradles it in large hands. “She was.”

…..

They return to the cabin, baskets heaped with rosemary and other herbs, as the sun sets. He shows her how to bundle it properly to dry and hangs it from rafters too high for her to reach. She hands him bundle after bundle, fingers brushing each time, and each time they touch a shiver chases down her spine. When they are done, the cabin is ripe with the bold scent of their work.

Her looks down at her, face healed from his last harvesting trip and as relaxed as she has seen it in weeks, and she is reminded of how close they are. He takes the empty basket she bares on her hip and tosses it aside. His hand comes up, rough and warm against her cheek, the other slips easy around her waist.

 _Today_. She thinks as he leans in close, forehead touching hers, waiting.

 _Today_. She thinks, his breath bouncing off of her skin.

 _Today_. She thinks, heart thump-thumping to match the rhythm of his against her palm and it is not frightening. It is not bad.

She tilts her chin up. He turns his head.

“ _Logi_ …” He murmurs just before their lips touch, and her heart breaks because _Logi_ is all she can ever be to him.

 _Logi_ \- a flame - and she knows that all flames must go out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is attempted rape in this chapter and violence so please use caution if that is triggering for you.

“My name is not _Logi._ ”

The words come in a burst of air without her bidding, rushing out like she can warn him against herself. They are her mind rebelling against her heart because as much as she wants this - wants him - her mind knows she cannot. To have him is to hurt him. No matter how hard she pretends it can be different, she knows it cannot be. She is leaving.

He jerks back as if her words had burned him, lips never quite touching, but scalded nonetheless.

He meets her eyes, hard and fast, one hand still like steel on her waist, the other roots tight in her hair. The urgency of his gaze mirrors the way he holds her. His jaw, his teeth, clench as he curls his lips back to speak.

“What is it then?”

She wants to tell him. She wants to fall into his arms and forget anything before him ever existed, but that is impossible.

 _Not today_. The thought flashes, her cheeks and eyes burning, unable to look away.

“Do you not know the answer yet?” A crack spreads in her chest as she speaks. It is different than the other cracks life has put there, and she sees its match grow in his eyes.

In a breath, he is not touching her anymore. She does not know how that happened or when he got so close to the door. The cool of the cabin hits her skin where there had been the warmth of flesh and it burns. He looks back at her, eyes bright, and he wavers. She thinks for a moment he will return, will wrap her in his arms and forget she had ever reminded him of their eternal game, but he does not.

Instead he opens the door and stares out into the fading afternoon light. He braces his arm against frame. She can see the line of his shoulder tremble and then realizes she is trembling as well.

“I understand there are things you cannot tell me. I understand for I have secrets of my own. Perhaps a day will come when we can share them, but until that day you must make me this promise.” He takes a stuttered breath. “Promise me that where there cannot be candor, there will always be honesty. I will not require answers you cannot give, but I will not tolerate lies between us.”

He turns his head then to look at her, eyes all ice and fire, and her heart staggers. His face is not hard as she expected. This is not a demand, but a request, and she still is not used to that.

“Will you do that for me? Can you?” His face so earnest it takes her breath, but she nods. Yes - she can. 

He nods in return. “All right then.”

He goes out the door after that without another word.

He does not return for three days.

….

While he is gone, she tries to use the distance for clarity the way she learned to do with Elsa’s memory. While he is gone, it is easier to remember why this arrangement is temporary at best, to remember her strength of purpose, why she ended up here in the first place, why she needs to leave as soon as possible. While he is gone, she remembers that he has maps.

She has seen him pull them out of the large trunk on the wall. They are old leather things he goes over before ice harvesting trips, always tucking one into his pack before storing the rest away. She pulls them out now, spreads them out over the table, and tries to decipher marks and lines. There are no words on them, nothing that indicates cardinalities, and she tries to make sense of them. She just needs to get somewhere with a harbor so that she may have a chance of getting away before the fjords freeze over.

It is not until the second day of scouring the pages, head throbbing to match the hours of political geography she had memorized to a woodsman’s sketches, when she realizes she has not once thought of her own safety. To travel alone is to not be safe. She knows that now, but it does not stop her. She must get far away - soon, regardless of personal price, because only then can she have a chance of saving his life.

She is not doing this for herself.

She is doing this for him.

…..

He returns with a limp and a foul disposition.

“What is wrong with your leg? Are you injured?” She hovers, but dares not to touch. Even so, he moves beyond her reach.

“I’m fine.” He does not look fine as he sets his pack down on the table with a thud before turning back towards the door. “I have to put up Sven.”

The way he shuts the door is a warning to not follow, to not question. She obeys, she will not follow, but she thinks of the map tucked under the mattress and sighs.

…..

They store the now-dried herbs in jars in the shed the way his mother had taught him and do not talk about the way he almost kissed her, or the fact that he has not tried again since. They do not talk about his limp or the stiffness in his right arm. In fact they do not talk much at all.

She tells herself it a good thing, a blessing. She tells herself the distance will make it easier to leave when the right moment comes. She tells herself she will leave the next time he does, before the weather turns and she is stuck.

She tells herself a great many things.

She believes very little of it.

…..

He sits against the shed, cleaning the barrel of a matchlock pistol with steady hands. The autumn breeze is crisp between them as she beats dust out of rugs and furs across the yard. Everything seems easier this way, when they both have tasks to do and the strained silence between them is filled with purpose.  

There is no pain left in her bones, her flesh. The marks left on her by the devils in the wood are gone to all but memory, and she leans hard into her task. The whittled stick, smoothed by repeated use, aides her in battle against the dirt and rubs a new layer to the calluses she has earned. Now tanned and freckled, it is difficult to remember that three months ago she had ever lived a life that kept her soft and fair. That is until he reminds her.

"How many languages do you speak?” He does not look up from his work when he asks, but she stops mid-swing.

Words are still few between them now, unable to find the quiet familiarity they had had before, and she feels heat mount in her cheeks at his question.The answer to his question is five, a simple number, but her tongue ties around it. Princesses speak five languages, but she is not a princess anymore.

“How many languages do _you_ speak?” She tries to get back into the rhythm of her swings like she can bat the words right back at him.

“I asked first.”

“Well - I asked - last.” She doesn’t want to lie, had promised she would not, could not if she tried, but she does not know what else to say.

He sighs, hands going still on his weapon, and she hears it as loud as thunder. Out of the corner of her eye, he looks as tired as she feels.

“You speak while you are sleeping.” He says and she swings harder.

“Do not.” Her stick lands hard as punctuation, but he keeps going.

“You do. When you do not speak our Mother Tongue, you speak French and Polish mostly. Maybe some English, but I cannot be sure.” His mouth quirks a smile, but his mirth is tempered by distance. “You mumble.”

Her arms give out at his revelation, falling short of their task. She looks at him and he looks down at the gun in his hands as if it hurts to meet her gaze. A swirling, sinking feeling pulls in her gut. Her knees shake under the weight of it. He pushes up to stand, rising like a mountain from the depths, still not meeting her eyes.

“I don’t think I have ever met a body that can speak more than two languages. I know I have never met one that dreams in four.” He tucks the pistol where it belongs on the leather at his hip. “If you can’t tell me the number of tongues you hold, or how you came to hold them, I understand. I do wish to know one thing though, if you are able.” He does not wait for her to respond. “No mater what language you use, where you are in your mind, you always speak one name without fail. Who is Elsa?”

He keeps his eyes on the ground, does not see the way her face goes white to then fill with heat. He does not see her press the beating stick against the ground for balance.

He is not supposed to know that name. She has been so careful to never speak it aloud since she left that now she wonders just what other secrets may have escaped while she slept in his bed. She thinks of lies. She remembers promises.  

It takes her a moment to find the right words. “She was family.”

He nods, the barest motion of his head. “And she is not anymore?”

She thinks of loneliness. She remembers hard words.

“No.” Far away and drifting. “No - she is not.”

They stand still then. She unable to move. He perhaps the same. The wind the only thing that dares to dance around and for an instant she wonders if this is what it feels like to freeze to a statue. He breaks the spell first and rubs the back of his neck.

“I am sorry for your loss.” His words hold the gravity of ten-thousand untold memories, but she does not ask because he does not give her the chance. She does not ask because she has her own ten-thousands memories that must stay hidden.

He disappears into the shed before another word is spoken and she collapses to the ground.

There on the grass she wonders if the only point to ever having something in this life is to lose it.

…..

The first frost comes early.

The world wakes to a blanket of glistening cold clinging to blades of grass, to barren trees, to sparkling cinders and eves. It heralds the coming of snow, never far behind on frost’s heels, and her heart sinks. As much as frost is a cue for snow, it is her cue to disappear. She’d never make it far enough away if winter wrapped its arms around the world. It must be now.

She fiddles with the ring on her finger and thinks of the map beneath the mattress.

There is never enough time.

He comes in from his chores with red cheeks and a cloud hanging from his mouth. He shuts the door against the cold.

“I am going to Arendelle for supplies.”

She grabs at the back of a chair, a sweeping dizziness exploding inside of her at that word.

“You are?”

“Yes. Today. As soon as I am able.” He goes to the trunk and pulls it open. “You have want to come?”

He does not see her sink into the chair, knees too weak to support herself. He does not see the alternating pallor and heat battle across her cheeks. He does not see how this next word may be the most honest thing she’s ever said to him.

“No.”

He takes out a few maps and a beaten leather purse. “Are you certain? Pass will be closed till next spring. It will be near impossible to get from here to there once winter sets in for keeps.“

The pass will close? She thinks of the illusion of safety, but impossible and near impossible are two different things. She cannot stay.

“Yes. I am sure.”

“If there is anyone you wish to see - blood or not - this will be your final chance till spring.” The words are as sly and searching as could ever be.

“I have no one.” She says and it is not a lie, but she looks at him and knows it is not the entire truth either.

“So be it.”

He has what he is looking for, securing the rest back in the trunk before standing. He looks to where she sits, his face holding shadows, and she wishes she could say goodbye properly. She wishes she could thank him in some way other than disappearing, but it is best this way.

“I will be back in five days at most. Stay close till I return.”

When he is out the door, she twists the gold ring off of her finger and leaves it on the table.

…..

He has just finished loading up his sleigh when she goes to the stream, bucket in hand, shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. She hopes he does not follow, does not wait for her return, because she is not coming back. She cannot come back. His mouth is too ripe with questions aimed to pluck the truth from her and it is best for both of them if he just thinks she has gone for some water. It is best for both of them if she just disappears because if she waits another moment she may never go.

The map is tucked carefully in the pouch beneath her skirt along with the coin she’d taken from the palace. Two day’s worth of food lies hidden at the bottom of the bucket. Her mind runs over her plan again and again, thinks of the path her feet must walk, rehearses the story she will tell the captain of any ship she can get on. She thinks of Elsa, of stone walls and loneliness, of the fight that sent her running in the first place. She thinks of him and how this is the only way to keep him safe.

The last thought is the only thing that keeps her going.

She has gone not a hundred feet beyond the stream when she hears the crunch of foreign boots in the bracken. She freezes, thinking at first that it is him coming to find her, and she scrambles for excuses. Then her gaze lights in the direction of the noise and she sees them, three men, and her mind does not give her time to think.

She runs.

She had met kind travelers on those first few days alone on the road. She had experienced the generosity of strangers. Those things are difficult to recall now as she hears the crash of pursuit behind her.She knows now what happens in the woods where men are wolves and women are prey.

A rough hand catches her arm, spinning her around, and she shrieks. Her other arm swings out with the bucket with vengeance and makes contact with something solid. She swings back, squirming and struggling as more hands find their way to restrain her until she can barely move. The men are a collection of black hair and drab clothes, tattered and worn bare in patches. One of them loosens his hold to step around front while the other two hold her tight.. He isn’t large, his build wiry, and most of his face is lost beneath a black forest of beard, eyebrows, and hair.

“It is not nice to grab people!” She kicks out but lands nothing.

“Well now - we’ve got ourselves a feisty one.” His beady eyes regard the length of her. “Ya lost, _jente_?”

“No.” She pulls hard against her captors, but they do not budge. “I know just where I am.”

“Then you know it is unwise to be traipsing alone in these woods. They’re cursed, ya know.” He tucks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and she sees rows of rotting teeth.

“I do not believe in curses.” She remembered what _Bjarg_ had said that first day harvesting herbs and holds her chin high.

“Ah. Funny thing about curses, that.” The man’s eyes filled with dark humor. “They don’t need you to believe in them. They do their work anyway.” He steps closer and she tries her best not to cower, but the way he speaks snakes fear down her spine.

“Well - uh - thanks, but if you will be letting me go now I have an awfully long way to get before dark.” She pulls again only to have the grip on her arms tighten to the point of pain.

She holds back a whimper.

“Oh we can’t be doing that now, _jente_. Just isn’t proper to leave a lady to travel alone.” He spreads his hands wide. “We’ll be more than obliged to offer protection - for a price.” The look in his eye told her exactly what price they would charge and her stomach lurches.

“Never.” She clenches her fists to keep them from trembling.

He chuckles. “Suit yourself,“ he puts a hand on his belt and there is no room for laughter now. "But we’ll be taking that price anyway.”

He steps into her and she kicks out. Her knee hits something with a satisfying crunch and doubles over with a groan. She tries to kick him again, but the goons on her arms yank her back out of reach. She thrashes in their grip, stomping and spitting with desperate fire. Somewhere in the midst of this she finds her voice and screams. It only last a second before a blinding pain whips across her cheeks.

When the stars clear, she sees blood dripping to the forest floor near muddy boots and wonders where it is coming from. An instant later she tastes it and realizes it is her own. The tang takes her back to the last time she’d had it on her tongue, to the pain, the fear, the hate, and she is nauseous. An iron hand fists her hair and drags her head up. The cold metal of a blade pokes at her throat. Her tormentor’s face is inches from hers.

“Not a sound out of ye, _jente_ , or I’ll be forced to spill a lot more of your pretty blood.” His rotting breath crawls over her skin and in that moment she fears death less than the fate he offers. She screws up her courage and spits in his face.

He stumbles back a step, loosing her hair and wiping at his eye with an oath, before rage paints his face red. The dagger comes up in his fist, a threat she knows he means, but she does not stop fighting. She will never stop fighting because she knows what happens when she does.

The blade is back at her throat when she hears it. It sounds like a crack of thunder, bright and frightening, and she does not understand it at first. Then the bite of metal is gone from her skin as her tormentor stumbles back a step, two. His face contorts beneath his shag and his knees hit the ground.

She sees the source of the sound then, a smoking pistol braced on his forearm, his familiar face resolved somewhere past panic to frightening calm. His eyes are not on her though, they are on her assailants, and she remembers through her shock that she should be fighting. She flings herself to the left, crashing into one of the men and knocking him enough that his hold on her slips.

The world sets into motion then.

He moves like an avalanche, on them in an instant. The men release her to brace for the attack and it is all she can do to get out of the way. Her mind scrambles to catch up as she watches the carnage unfurl. He is a head taller than both the men, but there were two of them, and looked to have been in their share of fights. As soon as he manages to knock one back, the other is on top of him. The rhythm of it giving her assailants rest, but _Bjarg_ none. She looks to the ground and finds what she is looking for. The branch is long and awkward in her hands, but it makes a delicious _thud_ against the back of the larger attacker. He falls to the ground and she looks to _Bjarg_ , but he is not looking at her. He is too busy staring down the dirk of the other. Panic balls up her throat at the sight and she misses when the man gets up and comes after her.

He grabs the branch and pushes hard. She topples over with a yelp, back crashing against cold earth. He straddles her hips in an instant and throws her branch aside. A dagger is under her nose before she can catch her breath.

“I’ll be taking that price double for me brother ye killed.” He sneers, bringing the blade down to her bodice and tearing down the collar.

She squirms under him, shoving at his legs with her hands even as he swears at her to stop. He presses the broad side of the blade under her chin with one hand and works her skirts up with the other. She grabs his wrist and pushes, trying to relieve the pressure at her throat, but it does not work. He is too strong. She tries to buck him off, but the dagger keeps her from succeeding.

He adjusts himself atop her, breath as rancid as his fallen brother’s in her face, the weight of him settling between her legs. She kicks at him with her heels and feels the first cut against her neck. The sharp pain and warm trickle of blood makes her gasp.

"Hold still ye or that won’t be yer last taste of steel.” He keeps working under her skirts, struggling against all of the layers, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

She tries to think of a way to get him off of her, to fight back, but he is too large. She is trapped and worse she has put _Bjarg_ ’s life in danger, the very thing this venture had been to avoid. She had failed him. Tears burn behind her eyes and pushes at her captor’s wrist again because she will be damned if she failed twice.

Just as his searching hand finds her center, his face tightens with a grunt she thinks to be self-congratulatory until his hand pulls back and he sits up on top of her. The hand holding the dagger to her throat retreats as well. His body shudders and slumps over her a moment later. She cannot breathe under his convulsing frame, crushed, but she realizes then that she is not the only one struggling to breathe.

She braces her hands against his shoulders, pushing with all of her strength, and he rolls off to the side of her. She scrambles to grab the dagger he dropped on the ground, the edge damp with her blood, and stands.

There is blood on her hands, her torn bodice and corset. Mud clings in streaks along her skin and clothes, clots under her fingernails. There is an unstoppable whoosh in her ears, her vision myopic, and her mind fails to think beyond the revelation that she is alive. She is alive. The thought shimmers through her and causes her to realize that the man twitching at her feet is dead. She is alive, and he is dead, and this sight is not as foreign as it should be.

She looks up then and sees  _Bjarg_ much like she had the first time. His breath is heavy in his chest, rondel bloody at his side, and his eyes fix on the man dying at their feet.

The world is quiet, still. It is as if time has fallen off of its hinges, rolling away from where they are now, leaving only they two to understand what had just happened. He wipes sweat and blood from his brow. She staring at the stain across her ripped bodice and thinking how blood all looks the same once it is out of the body. She passes shaking fingers over the jagged edges of it and feels cold.

“Are you all right?” He looks at her from the side, and the sound of his voice makes her jump.

It seems a funny question after what just happened, but she knows what he means and takes stock. Ten fingers, ten toes, and far less damage than she had sustained the last time this happened. She tries to find her voice to reply, but it does not come.

How does one remember how to speak after such an event? She had done it once before, but the weight of her purse, the map inside with all of her secrets, presses against her thigh and weighs down her tongue. She is not all right because she is not gone. She is not all right because she is still putting him in danger, but that is not what he asked.

Her head bounces in a series of compulsive jerks, a hysterical bubble in her throat bottles her voice tight in her chest.

He nods in return, moments passing as the haze of shock starts to clear. “What are you doing out this far in the woods?”

A cold wind cuts between them.

“I - I -“ She uncorks her voice to find it small and sad. "I was taking a walk.”

It is not a lie, but it tastes like one. He walks over to her forgotten bucket and kicks it. The contents spill out onto the earth.

“And you needed two-day’s food to take a walk?“ His voice is not accusing, just tired, and she never wanted to hurt him.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “It was to be a long walk.”

He hangs his head, face drawn tight as he looks to where the body of the first man lay. She looks too. The fallen’s eyes are open, unseeing and blank. She knows if she looks beside herself she will see the same sight in the second man’s face. She sweeps her gaze across the wood for the third body, wondering if he looked the same in death as his brothers’, but she cannot find him. There is no third body.

She does not have the chance to ask about it, does not know if she wants the answer, because _Bjarg_ speaks again.  
  
“Go get cleaned up and get in the wagon.” He stands rooted to the ground as rigid as Yggdrasil, the world tree of old, his body impossible and unmoving.

She freezes, sure she heard him incorrectly, because she cannot go to Arendelle. He looks at her then, the first time since he had found her. The lines of his face are long and sad and she wonders if he can see the dread in hers.

“Did you not hear what I said, woman?” His voice is sharp as a whip, a tone he hasn’t used with her before, and she startles.

“Yes – I heard – but – I cannot – ” She steps toward him now, urgency fueling her steps as her mouth fills with oceans of reasons why she cannot get on that wagon. Every one of them starts with _Arendelle_ and ends with _mortal danger_ , but she needs to explain. She needs to warn him before he gets hurt, but the look on his face says it is a little too late for that.

She stops short, words dying as he looks at the ground and shakes his head.

“This is now twice that I have seen you raped or something near it.” She is close enough now that she can see his shoulders shaking. “Twice now that I have shed another’s blood on account of your foolishness. I promised to keep you safe and it seems the only way to do that is to keep you at my side. Now go do as I say or I swear on my sword that I will strap you to the wagon’s bed myself.” He sheathed his rondel, but kept his hand tight on the hilt. The skin pulled white over his knuckles. “Now go. I have to bury these demons.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

When she gets into the wagon, the blood is gone from her trembling hands, her face, but still sticks to places in her hair. She had not had the time or means to wash it out and now it taunts her. She wears what is now her only dress besides the one she arrived in three months ago. The drab wool fabric is thick, rough against her skin. The hem at the bottom of the skirt is unfinished where she had not yet stitched, but it would have to do. She cannot return to Arendelle wearing the same thing she disappeared in. She cannot return to Arendelle at all - but until she comes up with a way out that is exactly where she is going.

She is shaking with dread when he climbs up next to her on the wagon seat.

His eyes stay hard, fixed on the path in front of them and an ocean of words choke in her throat. Litanies of apologies and explanations lined up faster than she could process. She wants to tell him why she cannot go with him, cannot stay with him, why her heart beats furious and unrelenting against her chest when she sees him, at the idea of leaving him, and they all cram into her mouth until there is no room for her tongue to form the sounds. She watches him from the corner of her eye, waiting, needing him to break the silence she created with her choices.

After an eon, he does with a voice like flint on granite: “There are rules out here. I never thought - never imagined you’d stay the way you have, but you did. You stayed, and there are rules now.” He grabs the reins. “I cannot explain them to you at this moment because we must leave, but when we return I will make them known to you.“

He clicks his tongue, and the wagon takes off. The racing of her heart matches the quick feet of the reindeer. Her hands clench to fists to try to still their trembling and she feels the cut of jagged nails cut her palms.

She is not sure what he means by rules or why this place is the only place for him to explain them. She is not sure what to do with the map still cinched tight to her waist. She is not sure how to tell them this has all been an awful mistake that can only get worse if he takes her to Arendelle. She is not sure of much of anything.

Her mind turns over plans, details, and ideas. It works through schemes and plots that all involve far more trickery than she is able. It tells her that the best thing she can do for him is to disappear the first chance she gets, and the thought makes her chest ache because she knows things now that she had never known before.

She knows warmth. She knows comfort. She knows acceptance. She knows that staying may kill him and leaving may kill her and there is no such thing as an easy answer.

So she sits next to him, stiff and stoic as he, and hides her tears the best she can.

**…..**

The sun dips low in the autumn sky before he speaks again. She startles at the rough sound of it.

“We won’t make it to Arendelle tonight.” He is not pointing towards her transgression for their lagging schedule, but not excluding it either. “We will make camp here for the night.”

He pulls the wagon over, underbrush cracking beneath the wheels, to a place she would not call a clearing  He unhitches Sven and proceeds to unload the few things they will need for the night. Before she knows it he is handing her thick branches and telling her to cover the wagon the best she can before he leaves her to it.

In the same form as the few weeks before them, they were silent other than when words were necessity. Though the wagon ride had been long, Sven carrying them down a road that was strange to her, they hadn’t spoken at all about the encounter in the woods. In fact they hadn’t spoken at all since the wagon started moving, and it isn’t for lack of topic. She is brimming with questions.

Why had he come after her? How had he found her? How did he learn to fight the way he did? How many times had he had to execute such a bloody errand? What had he meant by rules? But she had not asked, does not ask still, does not press, and secrets stay just that. It is best that way, she knows, but still she wonders if he can hear the questions rattling around in her brain as she works.

She looks up at the sound of crunching footsteps just in time to see him toss his rondel at her feet.

“If you are going to keep making fool headed choices, you best be prepared for the consequences.” He nods towards where his weapon lay in the bracken.

She looks at the metal, glinting bright in the late daylight against the dying earth, and she imagines she can still see blood on it. Her heart stutters. She tells herself that he would never leave his weapon dirty, would never be so cruel, but her mind fixes on the memory of just what he looks like after he has killed.

“Pick it up.” He speaks into the thick air, snapping her back to the moment. “This is the day when you learn to fight.”

She sinks to the ground as much in obedience as necessity under the weight of his scrutiny. Her eyes scour the blade where it lies, and there is no evidence of its earlier work. There is only metal etched with patterns she does not recognize, faint from polishing. She grasps the handle. The carved wood warms against her palm, and she locks her knees to keep them from shaking after she stands. The weight of the weapon pulls at her arm like a boulder and she can still feel just what the sting of a different blade at her throat. She can still feel the press of her choices, the consequences, as much as she can feel the press of her attackers atop her. Bile bites her throat, but she chokes it down and meets his eyes.

She lifts her chin and does everything in her power to keep the tremor out of her voice: “Let us begin, then.”

His smile is bleak in response. “Let us.”

**…..**

“You’re too small for a proper sword or pistol, and I have no time to teach you enough for those to be any less than dangerous to yourself.” He stands across from her in a small dell, brown and shriveled as the season dictated, but she thinks it must be lovely in the spring. She thinks shortly thereafter that she will be gone before she ever gets the chance to know, but does not have time to dwell any longer on those thoughts because he is speaking again.

“There’s but two places a woman of your size has chance to strike that will do enough damage to kill. Here,” he taps the tip of his stiletto to where his blood pulses in his throat. “It is quick, but messy. There is also a great chance of you being deflected. This way - up under the ribs through the gut - is the better choice. Especially if you can catch them off guard.” He shifts the blade so it angles up at his navel, aimed up towards his heart. “This way you can go from the front or the back, but you must be careful. When the gods saw fit to make man - they made us hard to break. You must strike hard and true or you’ll do more harm to yourself than anything else.”

She shifts from foot to foot as she listens. The feel of the weapon is no less odd in her palm then it had in the first moments she held it, and she flexes her grip to fight the sweat building on her skin. He is right. She needs to learn this, especially if she still intends to leave, but the idea of killing turns her stomach. She tries not to think about how the idea of leaving him turns her stomach even more.

“Come here.” He nods his head towards the edge of the dell.

She jerks forward, legs stiff, but keeps her head high. She is not afraid of him - she is sure - but the way he looks at her like he does not know her makes something shiver inside her heart.

“This is how you will practice.” He moves aside to show a stuffed bag, wrapped in a hide, hung from a branch, and weighed to the ground. “I’ve put branches and leafs inside as best a model as I could to a man’s chest. It is not the same thing, but it will give you the best idea of how hard you must strike to sink a blow and where.“

She blinks at his creation, pressing back flashes of black hair and foul breath, and she wonders how different this might be if there were a head atop her target. She wonders further how different it would be to fight a real person with their eyes watching, their limbs resisting, and she hesitates.

“I don’t know where to start.” She says, gripping and re-gripping her weapon.

“Just give it a go. I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

His voice is steady, sure, and she wishes she could be so too. She will be so, she decides. She looks at the crude dummy and takes a deep breath to steel herself. She owes him this, her effort, and resolves to try her best for him. She lunges forward, taking a stab at the heart of the dummy with a cry, and is startled when the blade bounces back off the surface. She looks down at the knife in confusion, and then up at her teacher.

“Don’t hold it like a hammer. A little bit like yourself won’t get enough force or be able to do enough ill at the distance this grip requires. You’re only chance is if you are close enough to surprise him. Holding the knife like that will do you no good.” He flipped his own weapon so the blade faced down towards the ground, the curve of it outward. “Hold it like this and get close. That way you can drive it down from front or back and slash behind if need be.”

She shifts her hold on the blade, the weapon still awkward in her grip, and tries again. She scoots up to the dummy, remembering just how close her attacker had been, and reaches her arm with the knife around. She angles up and in and takes a deep breath before brings the blade in. This time she at least pierces the hide, the skin thicker than she imagined it could be, and feels the excitement of achievement until the metal clashes with something hard inside. The impact of the collision sends shockwaves up her arm, rattling her teeth, and knocking the breath out of her. She drops the rondel and stumbles back a step, cradling her stricken arm.

“You hit a rib.” He said before she even has a chance to ask and picks up the discarded weapon and hands it to her, handle out. “Aim to go in lower next time, but you have the right idea.”

She rolls her shoulder, working the shock out of her muscles, and takes the knife once more.

She tries again and again.

**…..**

She practices for the hour of light they have left and he goes about setting up the camp. By the time the sun sets, she is exhausted. Her arm aches down to the bone and up into her shoulder, her back, and she thinks she may have new calluses from the new use of her palm. She turns her neck side to side, rolls her ears shoulder to shoulder, to try to soften work-tight muscles.

“This belongs to you.” She hands him his rondel as he did to her, handle first, when she arrives at the fire.

He takes it and slides it into its place on his side with a motion so routine she is sure he could do it blind.

“You have no natural way with a blade,” He says and her heart sinks in a way that surprises her.

They have been so distant for so long that she has not thought his reserve could hurt her anymore. She is wrong. He catches her eyes in the firelight, and his gaze flickers across her face before settling on her eyes again.

He adds: “But when I first learned, neither did I. Today was a good enough start.”

Her heart skips as she sees the olive branch he extends. She takes it tentatively.

“Yes - I mean - I do. I need more work, but I feel like I learned much today.” She offers, chasing after that feeling, that closeness they had lost.

“Good. Good.”

He bends to his boot, pulls a thin short blade from inside of it, and hands it to her “Here. Hide this where you can. It is yours now.”

She cradles the metal across her palms and wonders at it for a moment because it is beautiful. It is sleek, with a handle carved from bone, a blade he polished to perfection and hers. In the palace she had never given a second thought to all of the possessions she had at her disposal, but here in this world she is learning that each thing is precious. To give a gift meant accepting a loss, and she had already cost him so much. She cannot stand the idea of the scale tipping further.

“I - I will find a way to pay you back.” She looks up at him.

“ _Logi_ …” he uses his name for her and she realizes how much she has missed hearing it, realizes how long it has been since he has used it.

“I will. You have already given me too much, and all I have given you is such trouble. I cannot possibly take anything else without some sort of repayment.”

He is quiet then for a moment. He looks at his boots and rubs the back of his neck with one large hand. He stands like a man burdened beyond his measure and she wishes to share that load.

“Please. There must be something I can give, can do.” She feels the metal of his gift warming across her palms and she wishes she could read him the way he could read her.

He takes a deep breath and looks towards the fire. She can see the muscles of his jaw work, the tendons of his throat bunch and stretch, and her fingers itch to reach and soothe his tensions. She doesn’t - she doesn’t dare.

“There is one thing you must do for me.”

She sparks. “Anything.”

He shifts his weight and hesitates, measuring his words with care.

“I am a simple man. I do not have much, but I have my word. You must let me keep it. If you grant me that, any debt between us will be settled.“

She frowns. "I don’t understand.”

He nods like he expected that response, like it would have been too much to expect her to grasp the full meaning of his terms with his chosen words. For a long moment the crackling fire is the only sound and she does not realize she is holding her breath until he knocks it from her.

“The next time you plan on running from whatever it is you are running from - you must tell me you are going to go.” He turns his gaze back to her, eyes are hard and bright in the firelight.

Her mouth falls open and he motions for her to stay quiet. It is not a problem since she is not sure she is able to speak even if she tried. He continues.

“I will not stop you. I know the weight of shadows and I cannot fault you for wanting to escape your own, but if you must leave - if you must go away from me then l must ask you do not do it in secret. I have given you my word of protection, but I cannot keep it if you do not let me. You must let me keep it or you must release me of it. You must release me.“

She stares at him after this, mind whirling too quickly to form complete words. She thinks of all the things he has asked of her, of all the terms of their odd relationship, that this is the most impossible. She has thought leaving him without a goodbye was to be the most difficult thing she could do, but now she knows different. Just the idea of telling him, of seeing his face while she explains that she is not choosing him, puts a rock in her throat.

He steps closer and reaches out. He curls her fingers over the blade with his, not pressing, but sealing the weapon safe inside of her grip. The fingers wrapped over hers are rough, warm, and swallow her hands whole. She stares at where their hands stay closed together, not daring to look up and see him looking down at her. She is scared he will see the war of feelings written plain over her features, that he will see just how fast her heart is hammering.

"Can you do that for me, _Logi_?” He asks. “Will you?”

 _Anything_ , she had said and she has but one choice.

“Yes. I can.” She says, not looking up, but she can feel his approval like the rays of the sun.

“Thank you.” He pulls back, hands coming off of hers and suddenly she is freezing everywhere. “Let us eat.”

**….**

Dinner had been quiet, but comfortable. Their compromise gave return to a bit of the easy atmosphere they had cultivated over months together. She is glad of it, even if she is still uncertain of the price. It is not until their meal is compete that she can even meet his eyes out of fear that he will read her hesitation the way only he could.

Afterwards he covers the fire with dirt, leaving only embers smoldering in the dust, so the darkness is now broken only by the light of his lantern.

He hands her a blanket made of wool and clears his throat. “Have you any plans to make leave while I’m sleeping?“

She know it is aimed to tease, to lighten the last bit of solemnity hanging around their eves, but the words sting because she had considered it. Arendelle is less than a day away and that is too close for comfort. At any moment she could be discovered to disastrous effects. She takes the blanket and shakes her head.

"No. Not today.” The familiar words trip out before she has time to anticipate the depth of them. It is never today.

If he recognizes his words in her own, he gives no sign and pulls one more blanket from his pack before settling to the ground.

“Right then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She replies and hurries to the other side of the suffocated fire and away from his scrutiny.

Here on the side of the fire she can hardly make out the shape of him after he dims the lantern. She remembers the first nights after leaving the palace, sleeping in bushes and hiding the best she could so no one would find her, but that had been summer and the nights were mild. Now, on the cusp of the winter season, the ground is cold when she lays upon it. She scoots as close to the embers as she dares, but the earth beneath her still bears no warmth. Even with the heavy blanket and dwindling warmth of the coals, she cannot hold the chill at bay as it sinks through her skin.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her throat and fights against her shivers. She needs sleep. If she has any chance of being sharp enough to make it anywhere close to Arendelle without being discovered, she needed rest. She scrunched her eyes tight and curls into herself, trying to trap what little heat she has left.

She does not hear him get up. She does not hear him move around behind her. She does not realize he is on the ground behind her until an arm like a tree trunk wraps around her waist and pulls her firm against the broad heat of his body.

She squeaks, startled, and tries to shoot up but his grip on her keeps her where she is.

“What are you doing?” Her heart is in her throat, and it is not just from the surprise of it all.

“Warming you.” His voice is close to her ear, breath tickling the back of her neck.

In the back of her mind she thinks of propriety and how unbecoming it would be for a princess to act this way, but she is not a princess. Still, princess or not, she does not think it is safe for her heart to be beating this hard.

“I am warm enough.” And she is. Her cheeks are on fire at the idea of being this close to him, of feeling the press of his body like a mountain behind her, and she wants it as much as she knows she cannot want it.

“I could hear your teeth chattering from across the way.“ He does not give so much as an inch. "It will do neither of us any good for you to freeze to death in the night. Now be still and sleep, you stubborn woman.”

The tone of his voice lets her know this is not up for discussion, and after a few stiff moments, she tries to relax in his hold. She listens to the sound of his breathing, feels it against her back and skin, and hears when he settles into sleep a few moments later. She envies him. Her head and heart are too full to believe she will ever find sleep. Though as time wears on, as she listens to the rhythm of his slumber, as her body grows used to his, she feels the familiar waves of drowsiness wash over her consciousness. When sleep does come, she welcomes it with open arms.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amazing art by hotcuppahjo: http://hotcuppahjo-art.tumblr.com/

She wakes in the middle of the night to the feel of arms crushing around her chest and her lungs gasping for air. Her body is rigid, her throat raw, and it feels like her heart is trying to escape by beating a hole through her sternum. She thinks to scream when a familiar shush catches in the shell of her ear. She cannot place it yet, the weight of the arm just as foreign yet familiar, and she blinks into the night and tries to focus on anything in the moonlight.

Where is she?

“It was not but a dream, _min navnløse_. Sleep now. I have you.” He pulls her tighter into the curve of his body, the earth hard beneath them, and she remembers then.

She remembers the fight in the woods, the touch of men and metal on her skin for a second time as a nightmare within itself, and everything after. She remembers the way he taught her to fight, the weight of the dagger nestled against her thigh now, and the price she paid for such a beautiful weapon. She remembers their destination, sure to be reached tomorrow, and thinks of the name he just called her.

 _Min navnløse_. My nameless one - and she wishes that was true. She wishes she had no name, no past, so that she could have this future he offers her.

But she has a name, she has a past, she has a promise - and it a long time before she is able to fall back asleep in his arms.

….

The next time she wakes it is to the sounds of him building a small fire atop the ashes by which she slept. The sun kisses the sky pink in a morning greeting as old as time. Its light dances off a limitless world of frost and if she had been cold she warms at the sight of him. Her stirring catches his eye and he smiles a hesitant crescent in her direction. It may be the early light, or the chill clinging to the air, but she could swear he is blushing.

“Good morning.” He says over sparks and cinder and she feels her own cheeks warm at his hesitancy. The dawn bringing light to the fact that they knew the warmth of each other’s bodies. “I know perhaps we should not tarry, but my mother always said a warm breakfast was a privilege not to miss when you could, so I thought well to heed her counsel.”

She pushes up on one elbow. A crick at the midline of her spine snaps against the cold, and she shakes the sleep out of her eyes. “That sounds lovely.”

It is lovely in its own simple way. Breakfast is _havregrøt_ and the last of this season’s tart cloudberries he found while securing the camp last night. It is quick and quiet without the tension of days passed. The press of the dagger on her thigh is a reminder of just why their silence is eased, and her mind is crowded with as she attempts to reconcile her word with her reality.

She looks to him in a series of furtive glances. He does not notice her attention, for which she is glad, and she puzzles over all she knows of him. He, a man work-hard and battle-ready but who rescues broken strangers with no question or ulterior-motive. He, a man with hands that crashed like boulders or brush as soft as butterfly wings, who lives alone without friends or family, an honest man with secrets. He, a man with as much temper as he has mercy, spending both on her - a woman with no name. A man who will warm her through the night, her cheeks warm at the thought, but shies from touching her under other circumstance and the longer she thinks on him  the more her head aches.

….

“I never thanked you properly - for yesterday.” She starts while they uncover the wagon where she had hidden it.

“There was never a need for thanks” He does not meet her eyes, does not pass so much as a glance in her direction, and works harder still.

“But there is.“ She wants to grab him, to demand his focus, but she does not dare. Instead she stills herself - drawing herself straight as steel - and demands it with her words instead because he is wrong.“You have saved me twice at great personal cost and you have my thanks.”

He looks at her then, entire worlds living in his expression, and she fights to stay still - to make this important through her intention and control.

“You owe me no debt other than what we have already agreed upon, and we should leave it at that.”  He turns for the next branch.

“But -”

“Leave it, _Logi_.” There is grit in his voice that she has not heard since her first weeks with him, but it does not deter her.

“If you did not want my gratitude then why come after me at all?”

He freezes, shoulders a tense line of indecision between turning to her and attending to his work, and she does not move.  It is her question, after all. The least she can do is wait for an answer. He takes the branch in his hands and tosses it to the side without an answer before setting into the next one. His motion belies purpose as well as pretense.

“Why? You could have left me just as well.” She does not push, never pushes, but leans with all of her weight and he pauses for a moment so brief she wonders if it happened at all before he tosses another branch. "I left no way for you to find me to know where I had gone, and yet you were there. Why? How?”

He grasps the last branch to clear it but she steps close and grabs it before he can discard it.  Their eyes lock over the withered wood.

“I promised you candor in the face of questions. Will you not return me the favor?” She says and he repays her with a hard look. “Why did you come after me?”

He looks down at their hands, close and bare despite the cold, but he does not look back up: “You left the ring.”

“Pardon?” It takes her a moment to understand.

“The ring I gave you. You left it upon my table and - gods - I heard you scream.” His hands grip just that much tighter next to hers. “The entire world heard it if they were listening at all. You let me very little choice in the matter.”

She is not sure which of them is trembling, but the branch they hold shakes as though a great wind were passing them between them.

“I never meant - I mean - when I left it was meant to be an end of me troubling you.” Her voice flutters as her eyes follow his to where their hands almost touch. “I never meant for it to add to your burden.”

“I know.”

They breathe into the silence, unable to say more, and she loosens her hold on the branch. He tosses it to the side with the others.

“Here.” He digs into the pouch at his waist and pulls out the gold band. “Best you put this on again while we are in Arendelle. Save ourselves the trouble of explaining what we cannot.”

“Yes, of course.” She nods and takes what he offers. It slips cold and daunting over her finger.

She climbs into the wagon without another word.

…..

They crest the hill looking over Arendelle before she is ready, not that she ever could be, and the word _danger_ pounds in her mind. The turrets and housetops are familiar even after the months away. This view had been her only escape from the home that imprisoned her for years and she would know it anywhere. _Home_ \- she thinks and wonders if she will ever truly find one again.

She looks out to the fjord, the world not so cold yet as to keep ships from her harbor, and she wonders if she had not been stopped in the forest, if had found her way through the trees without detection, just how close she would be to her port of intended escape. She wonders if the life aboard a ship as a woman alone is as treacherous as it is on land. She wonders just how she will be able to leave him this time, knowing full well that this time she could not slip away like a shadow in the night.

She fiddles with the ring on her finger and tries to think, but the looming city in front of her steals her every thought. _Danger_ \- the word loops in her mind as she watches their approach. _Danger, danger, danger_ \- but she cannot warn him, cannot hope to save him the way he has saved her.  

“We shall arrive within the hour.” He speaks for the first time since they got in the wagon. This conversation is his peace offering. “I regret there may not be much to keep you occupied while I trade, but you are welcome to stroll the market while I barter.”

She nods. She may be welcome to do a great many things, but free to do none. She cannot take the risk of being noticed, being recognized. There are precious few peasants who would know her face, but if there were guardsmen about then the odds shifted. It would only be the matter of one good day for them and one bad day for her and she has had too many bad days as of late to trust that luck would tip in her favor.

“I shall stay close to the wagon so you have no need for worry over your supplies.” She pulls her shawl up over her hair and clutches it tight around her throat.

“Oh. Won’t I now? No. You have the knife I gave you in safe-keeping?”  He is joking. She can see it in the crinkle by his eye, but she feels the weight of the blade on her thigh as a small death.

“Yes. I have it.”

“Right then it seems the only worry I shall have is that you may not recognize me and try to cut me to the quick upon my return.” He says with a wink and a smile - his lack of care only exacerbating her worry. “You think you can try your best to be avoiding that, _Logi_?”

She bites her lip. “My best is all I have to give.”

“Then that is all I will take.”

She has a nagging feeling he will take a great deal more than that whether he means to or not.

…..

She thought there would be more commotion, more preventative measures, to enter Arendelle, but there is nothing extraordinary. They ride into the town without pomp or circumstance. No one pays them any notice and if they do it is only to place an order for ice the next season since this will be the last they see of _Bjarg_ for awhile. No one gives her so much as a second look, and while she does not let down her guard she does breathe a bit easier.

 _Bjarg_ goes about his business and she waits just as she said she would. From beneath the hood of her shawl though, she watches. Plain men in plain clothes sell plain things in a marketplace teeming with unremarkable people, but it is fascinating. It is the most people she can remember ever seeing in any one place at any one time, and she wonders if wherever she ends up will have this many remarkably unremarkable people doing unremarkable things within its borders.

She rather hopes so.

He returns to their wagon only to take new pelts and dried herbs to trade while replacing them with the new goods he had procured. Yards of thick wool fabric, large bags of flour, a small one of sugar, and he comes over once to tell her that he is midway in talks involving adding a she-goat to the residents of the shed but the owner needed time to stew over it first.

“Always leave them thinking you don’t need a favor and then they will be more than willing to give you one.” He leans his arms on the seat next to her thigh and looks up at her. “You look road weary. Shall we seek rest?“

She looks down at him, an odd vantage that lets her appreciate the length of his eyelashes when he casts a sideways glance at Sven, and she is anything but tired. Every fiber of her being is pulled taut in anticipation of the worst. She could not rest if she tried, not when the gates of the palace loom and guardsmen patrol and the queen is a breath away. She does, however, much like the idea of leaving the crowded marketplace for seclusion.

So she nods and says: “Yes. Rest would be wonderful.”

…..

The inn is small, not exactly clean, and right by the harbor. The smell of salt and fish is pungent in the common area below, crowded with empty tables and benches, but dissipates as they climb the stairs to the room he rented. He pushes open a warped door and lets her step passed him to take in the space. The little room is made smaller by the fact that he has loaded most of the contents of the wagon into the room for safekeeping. To her right a fire burns low and warm. In front of her is a dingy window looking out on docks below. To her left there is a single bed in the against the wall piled high with furs and blankets and even though they had lived for months under similar conditions - the sight makes her blush.

“There is mulled wine and bread there on the stool.” He slides in behind her, sidestepping her skirts and his supplies while nodding over to where the stool sits beside the bed. “If you’re hungry that is. Oh and I left a few coin if for any reason a need arises. The innkeeper can direct you wherever you may need go, or you may stay here until I return.”

His words are rushed, and she knows he has already taken much precious trading time to see to her care and comfort.

“You needn’t worry yourself so much over me. I will be just fine. You have given me more than for which I could ever ask. ” She says and in this moment she feels as guilty as she is grateful.

His mouth pulls a nervous smile and he scratches at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with her praise. “Fine. Fine enough.”

He steps back towards the door and she moves out of his way, turning to face him as he leaves. He braces one hand on the door frame and looks back over his shoulder towards hear, not quite meeting her eyes. Something strange shivers inside of her when she notices just how small he makes the doorway look when he stands in it.

“It may be dark before I return, but I will come back to you as soon as I am able. I will come back.”

Something tight and urgent pulls under his voice, keeping him from just walking away, and she hears what he does not say. She hears the fear of her disappearance, and it twists something in her stomach to know that she has taught him that. She wishes for a way to reassure him, to feed him sweet absolutes, but she has none. So she wraps her arms around her middle, pressing against the uneasy butterflies flittering beneath her skin, and says what years of etiquette dictates in situations as such.

“Thank you.”

The words are stilted and hollow. She wishes there is more she can offer him, but there is no time because he is already gone from the doorway and halfway down the hall.

She shuts the door and bars it wondering at how different she is now that she has come to love and trust closed doors.

…..

She works at the knot beneath her chin. The shawl that had kept her hair, damning red that it is, hidden while in the market now chafes and constricts. She feels like she is suffocating, and she knows that is not just from the binding at her neck. It takes a lifetime before she is free of it, but air comes no more easily than it had when it had wrapped her throat.

She paces, only able to take four steps before having to turn and start back the other way. While she feels infinitely more secure than she had in the marketplace, she still feels the gravity of her position with tidal force. She is not safe here, neither of them are, and she knows she is only tempting fate the longer she stays. The sun wanes as she stalks the room like a caged beast, light turning warm and yellow through the window amidst her indecision, until she nearly drives herself mad.

She goes to the stool where the food and drink wait, hoping that sustenance will calm her worried stomach, and snatches up the bread and cup. It does little besides distract her for a few precious moments while she realizes her own hunger and thirst, but that fades after a few bites.

She paces to the window, drink in hand, and stares out to the ships below. Their massive hulls and billowing sails scream freedom. To board one those vessels and disappear will never be an easier feat than it is in this moment, and ideas churn through her mind. She has made promises, to be sure, but even promises have their limits. He never would have asked the things he had of her if he knew just what it cost her, cost him, because as long as she is with him he is not safe. That reality is never more true than now within the boundaries of Arendelle.

She raises her mug to her lips swallows deeply, the spices in the wine sing down her throat and make her brave. He had said her well-being is his burden, but she finds that his is hers just as well. To leave him without explanation again would be selfish, but to stay is perhaps even more so. Princesses do not run away. If she is discovered, the kingdom will need a scapegoat. Who more perfect than the ice harvest with whom she is discovered?

These are not new thoughts. Perhaps they are just fresh under the light of new surroundings, new opportunities, and she presses against the growing knot in her stomach. She knows what she must do.

He had given her the knife under the pretense that she would tell him before she left, so if she leaves the weapon behind…. She sets aside her mug and makes quick work of lifting her skirts. The knife comes out easily from where she tucked it in her garter, the metal and bone warm from her flesh, and she turns it in hands for one moment. The beauty of it not lost on her, nor the practicality. It will be a disservice to have no form of protection while traveling alone, she knows, but this now goes beyond herself in a way so deep she could have never imagined it.

She takes it to the stool, the place she thinks most obvious for him to find it, and lays it atop the remains of her bread and purse he left her. It lays there like Judas silver, bright and mocking, as she unscrews the ring from her finger as well. She puts it by the blade, a guilty companion, but does not give herself even one moment realize that what she feels at the sight is heartbreak.

She grabs her shawl, unbars the door, and leaves without looking back.


	6. Chapter 6

Her breath hitches against the hard press of whale-bone and she does not remember when breathing became such a chore. The twilight air stings bright and cold against her skin where she waits pressed back in shadows. Even in the fading light, tucked behind crates and barrels just waiting, everything seems sharp. Every smell, sound, or motion pricks her mind and stops her heart.

She does not know how she got here, trembling from cold and nerves, but she knows she cannot wait much longer. Three more breaths and she peers out from her hiding place. The docks are still, quiet. The hustle of the day given way to the peace of the night as sailors seek the comforts of port and she knows this is it. This is her chance.

Shawl pulled tight around her head, she slips out of hiding and towards the nearest ship. Her every footfall ricochets through her brain, matching the slam of her heart against her ribs, and the warm courage of the mulled wine is long gone.She can feel reality singing through her blood as she steals up the gangplank as silently as she is able and sets two feet on the deck.

There is no one in immediate sight to inquire about passage. There is no bosun, crewmate, or cabin boy to ask after the captain, to see if they are willing to let her travel as far as their next port of call. So she takes another step, and then another until she is staring down a ladder that would take her below deck.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

The voice comes from behind her, unexpected, foreign, and close. She trips over her feet as she whirls to confront it and nearly tumbles into the hatch. A hand, gloved and hard, snatches her arm and keeps her from the fall. Here, in the fading light, is where she first sees him.

He is young, not much older than she is, with the kind of cheekbones sculptors aspire to in their work. The setting sun catches bright upon the red of his hair, darker than her own, with thick cuts of it jutting along his cheeks.The decorations on his uniform speak of high rank for a seaman, though she cannot quite remember which one. She thinks that she should be grateful for this gallant savior with his tight grip and quick reflexes, and while she is - she is also hesitant. There is something too sharp in his green eyes, and the wound on her neck pulses to remind her that she has been cut by men before.

She pulls a shaking breath and rights herself as quickly as she can. One hand brushes at her skirts but her other arm stays captive. A funny dry knot sticks in her throat, and she wishes she could run away as quick as her heart now hammers in her chest, but she knew it would not be easy to board a ship. She hates how much she is proving herself right.

“I - uh - was looking for you. I mean - not you per say - but anyone that I could ask about seeking passage upon your vessel until your next port of call. Are you he? That is - are you who I should be asking?”

The hand loosens, but does not let go. A smile pulls the corners of his lips and she relaxes a bit in its warmth.

“Have you come alone?” Those sharp eyes scan the deck, the hatch below.

 _Bjarg_ flashes in her mind - but he is not there. She is alone. In the back of her mind a voice hisses that she will always be.

“Yes.”

“No one else came aboard with you?” He draws closer but the smile lingering on his lips is no longer warming. There has been no change in the form of his mouth, but she swears that its curl now pulls the chill from the air.

“N-no. There is no one else.” She tries to step to the side, go get some space, but his grip tightens again.

“Good. It is bad enough having to deal with one stowaway, much less more than one.”

Her jaw drops. “Stowaway? I am no stowaway!”

“You are no member of this crew and most certainly snuck aboard without permission.”

“I was not sneaking. I was looking for someone to speak to about seeking passage.” She holds up her chin, hoping that he will credit the waver in her voice to the cold.

“This is a military ship. We have no room for passengers.” His eyes scan over her body. “But I believe I could devise a few uses the officers may have for one so fair of face.”

The warmth of his smile is all gone now. Just a few short months ago - she would not have understood the implication, but she does now. She understands all too well and she jerks her arm away from him and sidesteps. This does not make her feel any more secure as he follows her every move.

“I will find another ship.” It is difficult to be brave when you are in retreat, but she tries.

“I am afraid I cannot allow that.”

In an instant her mind takes back to the woods - pain searing brighter than fear - and she just moves. Her shawl drops to the deck as she lunges for the gangplank, and she is nearly there when she is stopped with a jerk. She stumbles in his grasp and he pulls her close.

“Let me go!”

“Ah such a pretty young thing, so eager on all fronts, and I can make good use of that.” He locks one arm around her waist, the feel of his breath on her face makes her nauseous, and she wishes she still had that blade. She wishes she had never left. She wishes -

“Let me go!” She pushes at his chest as hard as she is able, but finds little respite.

He chuckles deep in his throat.

“I am afraid I cannot let such a delicate and determined thing out of my sight.”

She sees it coming, but there is no escape. His mouth is hard and punishing against her own. The pressure far less of a kiss than it is an insult, and she bites him the first chance she gets. He yanks away and she runs again. This time when he grabs her she knows there is no escape. There is something too calm in his expression, dark blood slipping down his chin in the twilight, and his darkness turns her stomach.

“It is not wise to bite the hand which feeds.” His voice is low, measured, with a spark that lights his darkness in a new way.

“Perhaps it is equally unwise then for you to have a woman aboard.” She squirms, pushing perhaps where she should not push, but she knows where this ends if she does not. So she will fight back. She will always fight back.

“Perhaps. But I can see that the reward of breaking you will be well worth any contrived inconvenience.” His hands wander where they should not. “You have to make your own luck sometimes.”

He leans in again, and she struggles to remember what to do. _Bjarg_ had taught her, amidst the trees and hollows, just how to break a man. She pulls at those memories, dredging them up from beneath her panic, but not before he forced the metallic sting of his blood into her mouth.

She realizes through the bruising contact that he has not pulled a weapon, but that did not mean he did not have a weapon to pull. He expects her to be unable to fight, to defend herself, and in many ways perhaps she is, but not quite so much as he assumes. Her hands find his waist the same way his hands find exactly where she does not want him to touch and it only a moment before the hilt of a blade is wrapped tight in her hand. It happens in a flash. The instant she pulls, he pushes, and before she knows it she is at arms length with a short sword gripped in a shaking hand.

It is heavy, unwieldy, and odd feeling in her hand. It feels nothing like _Bjarg_ ’ _s_ dagger had, but she hopes the principles are similar. Gripping the hilt like a hammer, she swings without the aim _Bjarg_ had tried to teach her. He jumps back, agile and light on his feet, but not quick enough to keep the tip of his sword from slicing through the starched gray of his uniform pants and into the top of his thigh. The dark bloom of blood is immediate, staining his clothes and sending shockwaves through her. She has never drawn blood like this before, sharpened steel through soft skin, and a dizzy power within her quivers at the sight of her handiwork. She did that and it takes her breath.

He shouts and it brings her mind back to the whole of the moment. He staggers back, hands clutching at the wound, eyes flashing murder, and she is plunged into the depth of the reality of her situation. Her muscles lock. It was not supposed to happen like this - so quickly, violently - but she knows enough now to understand that if she stays here, if she is discovered by others, she might never well breathe a free breath again.

She runs. It is the only thing she knows to do and when her feet hit the cobbles she hears the sailor shout again. Perhaps he is calling for help, unable to give chase with his wound, but she has no room in her mind to grasp his words and assign meaning. Her thoughts are too wrapped in a knotted ball of curses and prayers that she has no time for words. The uneven street catches at the boots _Bjarg_ made her. The dark of the night sets tight and deep around her as the sun finally ducks its head beyond the edge of the world and she stumbles blind through back alleys away from the docks.

She does not know if anyone gives chase. The rush of blood in her ears is too thick to detect footfall. So when she presses herself into the blackest pocket of night she can find, behind stinking barrels and monstrous crates, she does her best to hold her breath and listen. She hears nothing but her own whirling thoughts, but still hardly dares a breath despite her screaming lungs and heart.

It is only when her pulse slows and her breath softens that she realizes she is still clutching the sword. She rips her hand away as though scalded. The clatter of metal on stone as jarring as any brutality she has endured. She jumps, then presses back further into her hiding place as if the darkness alone can save her. She knows it cannot, will not, but she also knows she has no where else to go.

Her eyes focus in the dark towards where she knows the metal must lie, cloaked in shadows as is she, and she remembers the way _Bjarg_ had tossed his rondel at her feet. The metal had taunted her then. It does still, and she is overwhelmed by the idea that she lives in this world where blood watered the earth so often - so easily - and she had added to it.

She cries with one hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the rolling tide of her grief. Her sorrows are too raw, too deep, for simple tears. She sinks to the ground, shaking legs unable to support her, and gives herself over to the mounting waves.

There is no plan now. She cannot hope to navigate the docks now, much less secure passage away from this place. She cannot run to a new town in the middle of the night with no real idea of where she is going and no protection. She cannot return to _Bjarg_ , not when she left him against her word, when he had shown her every kindness to only have her repay him in hurt. The idea of the palace, the sister inside, is equally unviable. She has nothing.

So she sits, unable to stand, and shakes against the cold and the seismic shifts tearing her heart apart.

…..

She has not moved in quite some time and the night has only grown colder. She thinks that perhaps she will freeze solid, body turned to ice, and she tries to remember warmth but the only thought that comes to mind is _Bjarg_ but somehow that only makes her colder. Others have walked past where she hides, torches and lanterns glimmering on the walls above her, and she knows it is only a matter of time before someone finds her. The sun would come around again as it always did - and her hiding place will be betrayed.

She rolls her neck, spine snapping, and gathers the courage that scattered in the dark. Perhaps  there is time for cowardice, she thinks, but now is not it. After all - there may be nothing for her out there but pain, but the same was true of her makeshift fortress. At least out there she had the illusion of chance.

So in the dark that wraps her like a friend, she feels along cobbles for the telltale bite of discarded metal until she finds the handle and grips. It takes some work, but she almost keeps her hand shaking as she skirts out of shadows and runs.

…..

She thinks now that running in the dark with a sword to gods-know-where, tripping and scraping along by starlight, is not the brightest plan. The idea that had seemed so certain in the security of shadows now rang of foolishness. She never should have left her hiding spot, the room in the inn, _Bjarg’s_ cabin, the palace… but she had and here she is.

“You are fine.” She says to herself after another bad tumble. “You must keep going. Do you hear me? Just keep going, _Logi_.”

Her encouragement freezes on that name, because it is not hers. It never had been, not really. She hopes somewhere she will find a name that fits so well and that she can keep, but not here. Not when dawn is fast approaching, and she is still lost within the confines of Arendelle. She clutches she sword a little tighter.

“Just keep going.”

…..

She has never been a good judge of the passing of time. She had spent days as a child on the floor in front of ornate grandfather clocks, willing the time to speed until the doors would open again, but she had never managed to sync her body’s rhythms to the seconds and minutes. It feels as though she has been scraping along these streets for days but that is impossible. The sky is still dark and despite the years of looking at the city from closed windows, she is lost.

She hears footfall around the corner, sees the shine of a lantern spill onto the street, and she presses back into the shadows as far as possible in hopes that whoever it is will pass without noticing her. This had worked before, peasants and ramblers walking past without a glance in her direction. This time, however, she will have no such luck.

A sentry of three guardsmen turn the corner. Their wool uniforms thick against the night air, weapons slung on belts at their waist, and she does not recognize any of them. They were not any of the select few allowed within the castle walls and thus could not recognize her either. She feels a short burst of relief at that thought which is extinguished as the light from their lanterns glints off of her sword. She pulls it behind the folds of her skirts, but it is too late. What other passersby had not noticed - the guardsmen did.

“I say - you there - what are you doing?” Says the tallest one, coming closer with his lantern, with eyes cold and calculating.

“N-Nothing. Just - I was just going back to - I got lost you see and I didn’t mean to cause anyone any trouble. I’ll just be going now.” She scoots to the side, trying to stay out of the light, to conceal her pilfered weapon, as much as she is trying to not let any of them get too close.

“Hold on a minute there now.” His two companions circle to the sides, respectively blocking her in. “There’s no reason to be rushing off just yet. Could it be that you are looking for some company?“ he smile at his comrades.

“No. No company.” She knows just what he means and she hopes the bite in her refusal stings.

He scowls. They draw closer. The relief she had felt at them not seeming to recognize her now fades in the terror that her deliverance from this situation hinges on the thing she wants the least.

“I mean no offense. I just want to be left alone, please.” Her palms sweat and she does not want to spill more blood tonight, or ever, but she tightens her grip on the sword pressed between the wall and her back.

“That is all well and good, my dear, but you are out far later than any respectable woman should be, alone or otherwise. You must understand our suspicion.”

She does. She also understands that three against one, in any fight, are poor odds. Furthermore she understands how little choice she has.

“I traveled here with a merchant and am unfamiliar with the customs of your streets. If you would allow me -”

“From where did you come?” They are only a few feet away now, and she realizes she is uncertain of the exact name for where _Bjarg’s_ cabin lies.

“The north.” She at least knows the cardinality, but when it slips from her tongue - the men look at each other and pause.

“The north,” the one on the right says, smaller and more fidgety than the others. “She’s from the north - her _hair_  -”

“I understand, _madkr_.” The tall one spits before turning to her. “How far in the north?”

“Uh - perhaps a day’s journey on a swift horse.” She is caught off guard by the question. “Three if you go by foot.”

The guards look at each other again, a silent exchange which occupies them all for an instant, and she knows she may not get another opportunity like this. She lunges to her right, sword sweeping out to clear her path, and slams into something that may have been flesh and bone, may have been wall, but she does not stop to find out. The impact shakes the heavy weapon out of her hand, but she has no time to retrieve it. All she has time to do is run, so she does.

She knows they are following. She can hear their shouts and heavy boots behind her, and she knows she cannot outrun them so she will have to outmaneuver them. She is about to turn a sharp corner when hands like iron vices come out of nowhere and snatch her by the waist.

A heavy hand catches her mouth, stifling her scream, as strong arms rip her down to the ground and roll them both underneath something she cannot distinguish through the dark and hysteria. She lands underneath the dead weight of a substantial bulk, hand still firmly in place over her mouth, and she is suffocating. Of all the ways she thought she might die this night, being crushed to death had never crossed her mind.

She struggles, and the hand tightens.

“Find her!” She hears a shout, footsteps pounding as loud as her heart as one of them runs down the alley where she is held. Light bounces on the ground, up to the face above her and she sees him staring down at her. She can barely believe what she sees.

The sounds of the guards fade into the night, bit by bit, and his grip over her mouth releases in time to the diminishing cadence until she is free of it. He rolls off to the side, shuffling in the dark to move out into the open, but she remains frozen on hard cobbles. Her mind is unable to process exactly what she saw and she thinks maybe she imagined him. She thinks maybe she had found this hiding place on her own, that she had conjured him as a comfort, because she cannot begin to fathom what it means if he really is there.

Unlike the hard soles of the guards’ boots, his soft leather ones make no noise, and she is almost able to believe that he is not there standing beside whatever he’d rolled them under. Any chance of her illusion sticking is shattered when he speaks.

“They are gone for the moment.” His voice is low and sharp. “Come out now so we can make our way before they return.”

She wants to ask how he knows they will return, how he knows they are gone, how he knew where she was. She wants to ask why he saved her, why he always saves her, and just what that meant. She wants to ask after his secrets, to push on walls instead of lean on them, and understand why he hides the things he does. She doesn’t though. Instead she struggles her way out from under the low rafting of their sanctuary and stands on shaking legs.

She tries to make out his expression in the starlight, but finds only shadows.

“How - why?” She means to use full sentences, to explain what she was doing out here, to find a way to make this less awful.

“Not here, _Logi_. We must make haste.”

…..

They do not stop until the door to the room in the inn is closed and bolted.

She still has blood in her hair, she thinks, as nervous hands pull at haphazard braids. She never washed it out, never had a chance, and this marks the second day in a row where he has brought her back from being lost forever. He is not the kind to keep score, she knows, but this is a difficult fact to ignore.

He stands in front of the fire, hands braced on the mantelpiece, head bowed, and she is struck by the size of him. The breadth of his shoulders, the weight of his legs, and she remembers now exactly why she calls him _Bjarg_ \- her rock.

The silence between them, the one which had grown since their exchange in the alley, is stifling. She thinks of the thousand things she thought of to say on their journey here, but none of them make any sense now. The words would be not but a jumble of sounds now, the meaning sucked out by their lack of importance.

She can only think of one thing to say now: “I am sorry.”

The reedy words carry from her place in the middle of the room to where he remains a statue by the fire and it sounds like he chokes on his own breath.

“No. You need not apologize to me.” His hands tighten on the mantel and she swears she hears it crack. He breathes, she does not. “This afternoon when I left you - I knew you were to run. Your face showed it plain as anything, and perhaps I should have let you, but I couldn’t.” He shakes his head a bit, breathing again, and she is dizzy. “I waited for you, down below in secret, and then I followed you just to know where you’d be off to so I could at least tell myself I’d been true to my word. I never meant to get involved, never meant to bring you back since it is clear I cannot keep you, but I did. I had to. Don’t you see it, _Logi_? _I had to_.”

He had to. 

That phrase, like it has never been a choice for him, like keeping her safe is the same to him as breathing, strikes something deep within her. She tries to remember a time where she felt unsafe in his company, where his decisions left chaos in their wake as hers did, but there is nothing. She has never been as safe as when she is with him. He is never in more danger than when she runs. She caused this, and she will fix it.

“You may keep me.”

The words spill out before she can stop them and ring bright in the air. She thinks for a moment of trying to catch them up and shove them back inside, but it is too late. She knows they are foolish, an impermanent solution, but she leaves them to dance in the air anyway because she knows they are safe. Her words would never be his weapons.

He does not turn, his back a rigid line, and her lungs burn in anticipation of his answer. 

Hours later: “What did you say?”

He still does not turn, does not look at her, and she thinks to be glad because she does not know if she could get out all the words she needs with his eyes on her. 

“I said I will stay. I will. And you -” her voice sticks for one moment. “- you may keep me.”

When she stops, he turns, body moving round to face her like a mountain ripping itself up from the earth. His eyes search her face, reading her as he always did, and she wonders just what he sees. His expression is hard, spooked, and hesitant. It makes her stomach knot.

She feels flustered under his intense scrutiny and rushes to fill the silence.

“Well would you want to?” Her face is on fire. “Keep me?”

He looks at her still, feet rooted to the ground like he is braced to fight - or run - and she is not sure she can blame him. She has taken everything he can give, but now it is time for her to return his favor.

“I do.” He says with a wary nod, like he half expects her to disappear right in before his eyes. “I do want to keep you.”

“Then you may.” She smiles what in a way she hopes is reassuring, but feels desperate. He returns the gesture in miniature, and her stomach turns.

She wants to go to him. She wants to touch his face, his chest, his heart. She wants to…

 _Not today._  She freezes.  

The moment passes and he rocks on uneasy toes.

“It’s late.” He looks at his feet. “We should sleep.” 

She nods, her head suddenly ten thousand stones and her eyes full of grit. She offers him the bed, but he declines.

He sleeps instead in front of the door on the leftover pelts and blankets for trade and she knows it is much more to keep her in than to keep others out.

 


	7. Chapter 7

When she wakes, he is gone.

The pelts upon which he slept, the trade goods he had loaded into the room the day before, are nowhere to be seen. The room is empty of any sign of him, and a warring tide of dread and relief sweep into the crater in her chest at the absence. She presses tangled hair back from her face and considers just what this means.

Despite her new surrounding it does not take long to remember how she got to where she is now. She dreamt each vivid detail from when sleep first took her to this moment where she fights clouds of sleep threatening to mix truth with fantasy. She shifts pieces, sorting them back where they belong, and takes stock.

She had hurt him - more than ever before - and it had been as clear in his eyes as her face in a palace mirror. It would serve her right for him to leave her here to her own fate after what she had put him through.

It would, but he wouldn’t. She had seen that too.

She looks at the stool beside the bed and sees the ring, the knife, just where she had left them the day before - but the bread is fresh and the cup is full and her betrayal complete as she knows he saw them discarded. She thinks to leave them there, to try to escape just one last time for his sake, but the words from last night keep her still.

_You may keep me._

She stares at the ring, the dagger, heart pounding, because promises made in the dark looks so thin in the light. Silly girl so desperate to be wanted that she will throw away everything in pursuit of it.

_But you had nothing left to lose._

The consolation is bitter in the bright morning sun.

She had not run from the palace to be reduced to the lowest common denominator, to be forced into a choice simply because there is no other, and yet…. She looks at the fireplace, all ash and cinder now, and remembers just how he looked the night before. She remembers what he said, how he said it, and thinks that maybe she had made her choice months ago because she had never felt so calm as when he said he wanted to keep her. She had never felt so safe.

She takes the ring and her hands barely shake as she slides it into place.

….

Time moves a crippled pace. The sun stays fixed in its place, refusing to hurry the day and his return, as she tries to keep herself occupied with the meaningless task of pacing the floor for the ten hundredth time. The bread is gone, the mead too, and hours have passed. She thinks to ask the innkeep for more, but each time her hand touches the door she freezes. What if he is waiting on the other side - testing to see if she will run again? What if there is someone else outside, someone who may recognize her?

No.

She can wait.

She will wait.

She paces.

She is deep in thought at the window when the door opens. She springs across the room, stumbling and falling, to where the knife lays on the stool and has it in hand before just as he comes inside. His face is drawn and hard, eyes going to where she clutches his dagger at her side - the ring on her finger, and he presses the door shut behind him.

“Why did you not bar the door?” He jerks his head towards the entrance.

“You took everything - there was nothing left here that anyone could want -” She does not put the dagger away quite yet. He is not that kind of threat, she knows, but the way his fists clench at his sides make her nervous.

“They want you.” His voice sets chill in her bones because this was not what she had imagined it would feel like to be wanted. “Seems whatever damage you did last night was done upon royal flesh and none are taking it lightly.”

Her mind stalls. Royal flesh? Did he know? Had he discovered…?

“Wh-what do you mean?”

He pulls his hat off and forks his fingers through long matted hair. “The man you cut on the boat is a prince of some sort and they are calling for your blood to make it right.”

A prince - the man on the boat - his blood on the deck forever a stain on her conscience: “Is he dead?

"Not from what I hear, but if any of Arendelle’s guards catch up to you it seems that you will be.”

“Oh.” She bites back the impulse to apologize, to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness for the wake of disaster she leaves wherever she goes, to make even more impossible promises, and she looks at the floor. Instead she asks: “What do you want to do?”

She hears him heave a breath, feet shifting on creaking floors, and she feels the heat of his anger rolling through the room.

“That’s a funny question coming from you.“ He does not sound like he thinks it is funny at all. "I want a near dozen things, but I have none of them for the fact that I keep expecting you to try another foolheaded trick.”  His words drive like nails into her skull, hard and painful, but she knows she deserves each one. 

He sighs, the weight of a thousand unsaid things pressing in his chest, and his voice is softer now but no less intense. “I want to keep you safe. I want to trust you, but you make that damn near impossible _Logi._ Do you know that?”

Hot tears blur the floorboards. She nods, fighting to keep her cheeks dry.

“I stayed put today, did I not?” Her voice shakes, still not trusting herself to look at him.

“Yes. You did.” His voice softer still.

She scuffs her toe against the floor. He drifts to the window and looks out onto the streets below. He takes no more than a glance through the dirty glass before hurries to her side.

“Do you have all your things?” She looks up in time to see him pull the scarf from around his neck and drape it over her head.

“I brought nothing.”  She fights against reaching out to still his hands as they pull a knot beneath her chin, his sudden change in demeanor alarming. “Why?”

He tucks stray red hair away beneath rough wool, skin sparking at his touch. “There are guards out below speaking to the innkeeper and I doubt they are looking for a room for the night.” He grabs her hand and pulls her towards the door. “We must leave now if we are to have any chance of escaping without discovery.”

She drops the dagger into her pocket and follows with her heart in her throat and his hands all at the same time.

…..

 _You will ride in front with me_. He had said as he checked Sven and the faulty hitch. _No one ever looks for something plain out in the open_. Her blood had skittered through her veins at the sound of boots on cobbles outside the stables. _And if we are stopped, for the love of Odin, keep quiet and let me do the talking._

Now half way through town she wonders why she had not fought to hide in the back beneath pelts and purchases. Head ducked, eyes glued to her hands on her lap, as every person they pass is a threat. The streets she had longed for from behind closed doors now are her worst nightmare.

She glances at him, his hands loose on the reigns as he navigated them through crowds of merchants and shoppers. His shoulders are rounded and relaxed as he sat beside her, but she could see the tension in the corner of his eye. She could sense his tension even if no one else could see it. A pang of guilt settles in her gut because this danger is her fault. She has trouble seeing this end in anything less than tragedy.

They make their way out of the city inch by painful inch, and by the time they are a half a mile out she is faint from lack of breath. The unwinding tension in her chest makes her tremble in relief. She looks at him to see if he shares her catharsis, but his eyes are fixed on something in the distance. She follows his gaze.

There, some a hundred yards ahead, ride two mounted guards. Their brass buttons glint in the afternoon light and her heart stops.

“We cannot turn aside. It would raise suspicion. We will carry on and pray they let us on our way.” He speaks to her but not at her. His eyes are fixed on the approaching sentry, the line of his spine an iron bar.

Her mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of it, and she struggles to keep her calm. All it would take is one guard recognizing her for any reason and this would all be over. She will be chained back into a world of closed doors, closed windows, and closed hearts. She cannot allow herself to even begin to imagine what they will do to _Bjarg_ for whatever imagined part he had in any of it. 

“Don’t say we are from the north.” Her lips scarcely move, needing to warn him of something, anything, even as she cannot warn him over her birthright. “Last night I told the guards -”

“I heard what you said.” His voice an unfamiliar forced calm. “Now do your part and play dumb.”

They are close enough to make out faces now, and she turns hers down to her lap. _Bjarg_ pulls the wagon to the side of the road with a nod to the men to let them pass as if nothing is amiss. For a moment she thinks they will do just that, but fate would not be so kind.

“You there,” a guard hails them, but she does not look up, does not even flinch. She tries to think if his voice is familiar, but she cannot. Her heart beats too hard. “Where are you off to?”

 _Bjarg_ pulls the reins back tight and slows Sven to a stop. “East. We have trading to do in Farstow.”

She hears horses hooves stomp around them, sees flashes of boots and flanks out of the corner of her eye as the guards circle the wagon.

“Farstow, eh?”

“Yes.” _Bjarg’s_ voice is sure and solid, but she hears the caution he uses to make it so.

“What are you trading?”

“Pelts mostly.”

“Then where to after Farstow?”

“We’ll head -”

“Not you.” The guard interrupted. “I’m asking her.”

Her throat seizes, clamping down so hard she cannot breathe, and she tries her best to not show it. She can feel the guard pointing, eyes boring holes into the top of her head. A cold sweat breaks out over her skin.

“My wife cannot answer.” _Bjarg_ interjects. The word _wife_ is not as startling as it had once been. “Fever touched her mind and took her speech two seasons ago.“

“You don’t say.”

“Afraid so.”

A horse gives an anxious whinny.

“Just where is it did you say you were from?”

“I do not believe I did.”

“Ah. Yes. Care to remedy this?”

“We hail from Glimstock.”

She has never heard of it. She hopes the guard has. Her hands lock fists in her skirt as she wills herself to disappear into nothingness. 

“Good trapping that way?”

“Good enough.”

One of the guards pulls up close to where she sits. She can feel him bending down from the saddle, stretching to catch a glance of her face. She focuses on keeping her breathing even and deep even though each breath is a struggle. Then he speaks:

“Remove her scarf.”

Her breath stops.

She hears the leather reins creak in Bjarg’s hands.

“It is not for sale.”

“I said remove her scarf. That is an order.”

The world is strange and still in this instant. Everything moves too quickly while slowing down all at once. _Bjarg_ turns to her, his large hands take her shoulders and cheats her towards him. Their knees bump. She jerks her face up towards his when his hands go under her chin to the knot he tied. His expression is resolved beyond fear to that place of dark concentration which was altogether too familiar.

“Easy now.” He whispers and pats her thigh where the dagger rests and she understands.

He returns to the knot and undoes it with care. Her braids tumble out, matted, mused, and undeniably red. Her hand goes into her pocket as _Bjarg_ looks to the guards to make the next move. The man closest to her grabs her chin in gloved fingers and jerks her face towards him.

She wanted to keep her eyes down, to look dull and dumb like _Bjarg_ had told her to, but the pain of the guard’s touch pulls her eyes open bright and she catches the guard’s eye. It is an odd moment when she sees the war of recognition, horror, and disbelief paint the guards features because she is sure his expression mirrors her own. She recognizes him (and not from last night - from _before)_ he her, and the months of bottled panic waiting for this moment explode in her chest.

“It’s you - you are - ” he stumbles over his disbelief and she has to stop him he can say her name - her title.

She draws the dagger and swipes at his arm. The blade tears fabric, skin, and he releases her face with a shout. The blade and her arm fall as he rips away and sink down into the side of his mount. The horse rears with a scream, throwing his rider and bolting before anyone had chance to blink an eye. She watches him sail to the ground with a sickening crack and stay down.

The remaining guard watches this from the other side of the wagon. Before he can pull a weapon, _Bjarg_ stands and launches his fist into the guard’s face. The guard reels back on his horse, stunned, but stays mounted.

They do not wait to see what happens next. 

_Bjarg_ snaps the reins and Sven bolts like he knows what depends on him. The wagon and all within it sped down the rutted road with abandon. _  
_

_“_ Hold these!” _Bjarg_ shouts over the commotion and hands the reigns to her and jumps into the bed of the wagon without explanation. She clutches them white knuckled and not daring look back to see what was unfolding behind her. Before long though there is a crash, a shout, a thud, and then _Bjarg_ is back beside her taking the reins and driving Sven harder.

She looks back then.

In the growing distance she sees a shattered crate of supplies in the middle of the roadway, sees the horse that had tripped on them, and the body of a man thrown amidst the wreckage. She sees salt, flour, rope - things they - he - needs all scattered for naught in the dirt and she feels the growing price of her freedom.    

She whips back around to see _Bjarg_ ‘s face set hard in front as he drives them forward like mad. .

“Leave it _Logi_.” He does not even give her the chance to speak “Some things are more precious than salt.”

…..

A mile later, unfollowed and exhausted, they slow and cut off into the woods on a path before unseen. It is thick and overgrown to the point she wonders if the wagon will be able to cut through.

“Why are we going this way?” She clutches the seat for balance as they are jostled side to side.

“The main road will be patrolled to be sure.” He slows Sven another click. “So unless you want a repeat performance, we go this way.”

She does not object.

…..

It is near an hour before the stop.

“Where are we?” She asks as he halts the wagon in the midst of deep, unfamiliar woods. She had long since given up on being able to see a trail in the way they were going, but the ride is smooth enough.

“Our home for now.” He jumps out onto the ground and takes the reigns in front of Sven and hitches him to a low branch before he comes and helps her out of her seat.

“Here?” She asks as he leaves her to fetch things from the wagon bed.

“Not quite.” He lights a lantern though it is not yet dark.

He heads towards a wall of ivy and moss. He reaches out his free hand into the greenery. She watches with suspicion as he feels through the plants until he finds what he is looking for.

“This way.” He says before parting the solid wall of stepping inside.

She blinks as she watches him seem to disappear into the mass of green before hurrying to catch up.

It is darker than dark when she presses through the foliage the way she had seen him do. The entire world shrinks into the small spectrum of light shining from the lantern he carries. The stone ceiling is low enough that he must to stoop to stand. The rocks on the ground are slippery and wet.

“Come on then.” He jerks his head and moves further into the tunnel. She follows.

She is not sure how far they walk, but it seems like miles of slick loose rocks before the cramped tunnel opens a bit and he can stand normally. It is another eternity, the world growing more dank and muggy with every step, that the tunnel opens further into a wide room. She could not get the entire scope of it as the lantern light failed to illuminate the fullness of it, but something glimmers flat and wide a few feet away.

“It is a hot spring.” He answers before she asks. “But not too deep and not too hot.”

The spring reflects black. The steam wet rocks shimmer and seem to shift in the corner of her eye, but turn still when she looks their way. Occasional smoking geysers pop up around them there is no trace of winter here in these caves. She feels herself begin to sweat.

“We will stay here till the danger passes.” He sets his lantern down at the edge of the water, the light bouncing and playing bright ridges and dark shadows wherever it landed.

“But what of the wagon - of Sven?” Her eyes dart to the left, so sure she saw something move.

“I will go tend to them now, but first…” He pulls his pack off of his shoulder and opens it. He extracts yardage of fabric and a crude bar of tallow soap and extends them to her. “It will take me a bit to get everything settled back there. I thought you may like a wash while I am gone. Odin knows when you will have a chance again to bathe with such comforts as this.”

He is careful with his words, tactful and considerate with his phrasing, but she still blushes at the suggestion. She had not had a proper bath since she was a princess but the idea of getting the blood out of her hair, of soaking her bones in luxurious heat, are enough to combat any propriety that may have held her back. She takes the items with downcast eyes.

“Thank you.” She says and means it.

He coughs, a sign she has learned that he is uncomfortable. “When you are done, put the lamp in the mouth of this cave so it shines down the tunnel. I will not return until you give this sign.”

He moves to return back into the darkness through which they came until she stops him. “Wait! What will you do for light?”

He turns and smiles at her, teeth glinting. “No need to worry _Logi_. These caves are not as foreign to me as they are to you.”

With that, he is swallowed by black shadows and she is alone.

She blinks twice and counts to thirty before she is sure he has gone. She does not think he would peep. After all he had more than enough opportunities in the last months to abuse their arrangement, yet he never had. No. These breaths are for her to melt the cold dread out of her bones at the memory of the crumpled guardsman on the road. They are to purge her lungs of the stale breaths she’d held all day. They are her permission to grieve the loss of Arendelle in an entirely new way. 

Only after that did she place her items next to the lantern and begin to work at the laces and hooks which bind her.

Once undone, she piles her things on higher ground and looses her hair. Then, one foot at a time, she wades into the mineral-rich water. The grade of the rough rock beneath her feet was steep and uneven. The water pools hot and thick beneath her breasts in only a few steps and it is divine. She wants to luxuriate in the heat, the weightlessness, until she is pruned and boneless as she had ever been in palace baths. That, she knows, is not her reality anymore. Times such as these are meant for practicality more than pleasure, and she fetches the soap.

She soaks her hair to the roots before working the bar through it the way her chambermaid had done and scrubs at the blood and dirt that holds tight there. She nearly loses the soap on more than one occasion, but the heavy water floats it to the top whenever it slips from her fingers. After her hair is as good as she can manage, she moves to her body. Her hands explore her frame in a way she has not had opportunity to since she left the palace.

She is smaller than before. The softness on her hips, her stomach, are lesser. The swell of her breasts is slighter. The bones of her back feel sharp against probing fingers. The lamplight accents the differences. The change is strange and startling.

She thinks of the wardrobes of gowns back at the palace and how tight they would have to draw the laces to make any of them fit her now. She thinks of the gown she had come to _Bjarg_ in, tattered and stored in his chest once more suitable clothes had been made, and she wonders if it will hang on her like a tent. Perhaps she looks so changed that even Elsa would not recognize her on sight.

No. If a guard could recognize her surely Elsa could do the same.

_But she won’t ever have the chance, will she?_

That thought is as unsettling as it is a comfort and she hurries to finish her bath so she can dress and forget it.

The warmth of the air keeps her from grieving the heat of the water too terribly as she dries her skin and hair. She dresses, but does not pull her laces tight or replace her shoes and stockings as the steamy air makes the idea of anything different stifling. She leaves her hair unbound to dry.

She takes the lantern to the mouth of the cave room and calls into the darkness: “I am finished!”

She waits.

When he does not appear readily, she ventures down the tunnel to where the stream drop into the earth and calls out again. “ _Bjarg_! You may return. I am finished!”

She waits again, not wanting to stray too far down the tunnel towards the cold. It is not long before she hears heavy steps, see a faint light grow brighter upon approach, and he is soon in clear sight. He bears a second lamp and a pack secured to his back.

“You needn’t have come this far.” His takes her in from head to toe, and she is aware how different she must look from the last time he saw her. She blushes. “I would have found my way back to you.”

“Of course,” she says and that idea strikes her as an undeniable truth. He would find his way back to her the same way the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Something tells her he always will, if she lets him. “I just thought perhaps you could not see the light and I wanted to be sure.”

“Ah. I see.” He smiles small and soft. “Well I am here now. Let’s head back up.”

They do, picking their way back the same way they did the first time, until the tunnel opens back into the wide room with its steaming pool. He hangs his lantern on an outcropping and takes off his pack. She retreats to where her shoes and stockings wait next to the damp fabric a few feet away.

“If you won’t be minding,” He drops to his knees and opens his pack, not looking her way. “I would like to bathe as well.”

He is not asking permission, not exactly. He is asking her to trust him, if he can trust her, and the exchange is familiar.

“I left the soap there.” She points to where the bar lies at the edge of the pool and his eyes go where she directs them. “I can wait below.”

She takes three steps towards the tunnel before he stops her.

“No.” He stands to block her path, surprising them both. “I mean -” He looks at the ground. “I will not take long. If you had want to stay you could simply - not look.”   

His words take her aback for a moment as she tries to understand.

 “You - you mean - you would like me to remain in the room with you while you - ” She blushes, just the thought of what he implies ties her tongue in knots.

He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, still not looking at her. “It would unburden my mind greatly to know you are close and safe.”

 _And that you haven’t run again._ She hears though he does not need to say it.  

She looks at him and she knows that if she said no that he would not press the matter. He will stay filthy at his own expense if it means her comfort and that alone is reassuring.  

“Of course.” She nods. “If it will ease your mind.”

“It will.” He meets her eyes now, all earnestness and heart.

“Right then.” She nods again, though he does not see it, and swallows hard. “I will just be over….”

She does not finish. The words seemed silly since she was not really going anywhere. The entire point of this was that she would be staying in this place. So she finds a place near a wall, sets the lantern down, and sits with her back towards him and the pool. 

She hears the shift and fall of clothes, the slosh of him stepping into the pool, the vigorous scrubbing of hands and soap over skin. Something burns in her, deep and curious, to see just what he looks like in this moment. The temptation sends prickles down her neck as she tries to resist peeking. It wells up inside of her like a bubble threatening to pop and she has to do _something -_

“Where is Sven?” She blurts, her voice breaking the cadence of his bathing and allowing her a chance to regain a modicum of sanity.

“He is safe.” His voice echoes in the cavern. “This is not the first time we’ve stayed in these caves and I doubt it will be our last.”

“I see.” She fiddles with her hair, pulling apart tangles with nervous fingers. “And the wagon? It is safe also?”

“Yes.” He says. “You need not worry. Everything is safe.”

She hopes so.

“But what if they followed us?”

“They did not.”

“But if they did - if they find the trail -”

 "They will not.“ He stops her with a voice harder than she expects and then sighs. "We are safe _Logi._ Put your mind at ease.” He speaks softer now. “Only those who have been shown these caves know of their existence and I promise you no man will cause you harm during our time here.”

Silence settles back over them. The gurgling of the spring, the shifts and drips of the water, the rough scrub of soap over skin are the only sounds again. She bites the insides of her cheeks to distract herself, to keep herself from pressing further than she should, from asking things clearly meant to be left unanswered. 

She cannot help however that she spend the rest of her time waiting for him to finish wondering just who showed him these caves and just what she would see if she turns around.

…..  

She does not have long to wonder. True to his word he is done before she has time to stiffen from sitting on the hard ground. After he gives the signal, she stands and stretches. He is by his pack, placing his shoes and heavy outer layers in a pile away for safe keeping. He is left in his drab breeches and tunic. His thick hair has grown long in their past months together, normally tangled and disheveled, now it is slicked back from his face with water dark waves dripping onto his collar. The dust and grime of fight and travel are gone and she catches herself staring. He looks at her.

“Time fast loses meaning in these walls, but I am sure you must be hungry.” He says and reaches deep into his pack to produce some roots and cheese.

She comes to him and he extends her portion from his place on the ground. She takes it, their fingers brushing and she blushes. She hopes the dim light hides it.

“Thank you.”

He grunts and shifts to cross long legs before he begins eating. She hesitates, juggling her food in her hands, before deciding just where to sit without invitation. She fumbles to keep everything in its place as she tucks her legs beneath herself. He does not offer help. Odd, she thinks, or perhaps not for as she studies him by lamplight she can see his deep concentration.

She wants to ask just what he is thinking just as much as she is afraid to. She sets her meager fare on the tent of her skirt and eats in silence instead. A few minutes pass before he reaches back into his pack and pulls out his ragged leather costrel. He takes a long draw before extending it to her. She takes it, fingers not touching this time, and sniffs the mouth of it. The scent is unfamiliar, strong, and the sip she takes burns a trail of fire down her throat.

“What is this?” She coughs.

“Akvavit.” His mouth turns up at one corner. “It warms both the body and the mind.”

She has to agree. One sip and she feels the sweat break out on her upper lip, but it is not unpleasant. She takes another sip, a third, before taking another bite of root.

She feels his eyes on her, and the heat of the akvavit already raises to her cheeks. She meets his gaze and finds a man working out a puzzle.

“That man knew you.“ He does not accuse her, but he also does not release his gaze.

She takes a drink, another, until she breaks with a ragged gasp and her insides ablaze. "What man?”

She knows just what man and his expression darkens at her avoidance.

“The guard on the road. He looked as though he had seen a ghost when he saw you, and you did as well.” He takes back his costrel before she can abuse it anymore and swallows a long drink. “Did you know him well?”

The question gives her pause. She did not know him well at all. She had seen him around the courtyards of the palace, always in passing but often enough to remember his face, but she did not know him. She did not even know his name, but he knew hers and because of that he may be dead now. Her stomach lurches.

“No. I knew him not at all.” It is not a lie, but it tastes foul on her tongue.

He is quiet then, watchful eyes exploring her face, and sighs into the damp stillness. “Well because of him and his companion I fear neither of us will be too welcome in Arendelle for quite some time.”

It is his way of excusing her from the conversation, from his craving for answers, just as she had excused him from explaining his knowledge of these caves.

She nods in agreement, knowing the loss that this posed for him.

They finish the rest of the their meal in silence.

…..  

The moment they finish eating, he makes an excuse to go back to the wagon for supplies and leaves her alone once more.

She had taken a lantern in attempts to explore its limits, chasing shifting shadows out of the corner of her eye and uncertain if her blood is warm from her surroundings or from the akvavit. When he finally returns up the tunnel she goes to help him organize the supplies for their stay.

It is mostly food, blankets, and extra wicks and oil. It is quickly sorted into appropriate places before they are left once more in silence. She stands in front of him, shifting foot to foot. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws the final item.

“You left this in the wagon.” 

It is the dagger. She can see the crusted blood on its end and she thinks it is miracle it had not gone lost in the mad dash. She takes it carefully. 

“Oh. Thank you.” She pockets it the way she had before, not wanting to dwell on the carnage.   

“You’ll need to clean it.”

“Yes of course.”

She looks to the hot springs and thinks how odd it would be to clean both her body and her sins in the same pool. 

She slips the dagger into her pocket and changes the subject. “How do you think this got here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This place - the hot springs.” She gestures and cheats her body out towards it.   
“How did it get here?”

He shifts so they stand shoulder to shoulder now, both looking at the dark pool. 

“They are heated from Loki’s rage at being contained beneath the earth.” He says in a voice low and sincere. “The gods had him bound and imprisoned for causing too much mischief here on Midgard and now he seethes beneath the surface plotting his revenge.”

She looks at him, puzzled at his reverence. “And that is how this got here?” 

He drops his head and kicks at a loose pebble with his toe. “That what I was told.”

“By your mother?” She pushes further than she knows she should, made bold by the akvavit. 

He startles upright, shoulders back and tense, only to have them relax as he sees her face. He weighs his response, as is their custom, but it feels different.

“Yes.” He watches her now in a way she had never seen, like she is a panther waiting to pounce. “By my mother.”

She nods her approval. “Well it is a fine story. You should be glad your mother gave you it.”

He clears his throat. “I am.”  

Sensing his discomfort, she looks away at the room around them. She wonders where they will sleep and if it is time for sleep and how they will ever keep track of day or night in a place like this. She wonders what they will eat for breakfast and where exactly he has Sven and the wagon. She thinks of the guardsman crumpled back on the road and wonders if she will ever know what became of him.  

She is so lost in her dizzy train of thought that when he traces the side of her head with purposeful fingers it is her turn to startle. 

She whips her gaze back to him.

“How did _this_ get here?” He stokes the shock of white laced in with red and she feels the touch rock through her all the way to her toes. “What is your story for that?”

He is pressing too, as she had given him permission to with her question. It has been _years_  since anyone asked her about the white stripe running the length of her auburn locks, and it takes her a moment to reply.

“Oh? This?” She reaches for the strand, but stops when she realizes she may touch his hand in the process. “I dreamt a troll kissed me.” She thinks of darker dreams she’d had recently and almost misses the shadow that pulls across his face.

“A troll you say?” he lets his hand linger, but does not meet her eyes. “No. A troll would not leave a mark such a this.”

“And I suppose you know a great deal about trolls.” She fights her instinct to move away, to throw her arms around him, to jump and scream and flail, and holds her breath to keep still.

“I know a thing or two.” His eyes flash to hers, warm as whiskey in the lamplight. The hand on her hair trails down around the shell of her ear, fingertips whisper down the column of her neck, and she can see his want to kiss her plain on his face.

She should let him, she knows. Perhaps it is even what she wants, but she thinks on what this means, on what it signifies, and she flushes. The bond they share now is more than an unspoken truce. He has fought for her, killed for her, sacrificed calm and comfort for the maelstrom of her presence.

“ _Min navnløse_ …” He says, a spark of pain flashing dark in his eyes, as she sees him paralyzed in the war of what he can have and what he cannot. 

“My name is _Logi_.” She uses the words as a balm on old wounds. “I am _Logi_ now.”

 _Today_. She thinks and she steps into him without warning, holding his face in trembling hands, and presses her mouth against his.

She hears his sharp breath at the contact, feels his body fill and grow on the breath until she can barely reach his mouth with hers. Then he exhales a groan, an arm catching around her waist, the other hand tangling in her hair, folding his body around hers until they fit together.

He kisses her like she holds her secrets on her teeth, her tongue, and he can taste each one. Like if he goes deep enough, holds her close enough, breathes her in long enough he will unriddle her existence in his life. Where his words are carefully undemanding, his kiss asks everything.  It is overwhelming. It sucks the air from her lungs, from the space around them, and her chest burns. Her hands fall from his face to his shoulders, his chest. She clamps onto the fabric of his shirt, swooning against his chest, and the arm around her waist tightens to keep her upright as he pulls back.

Calloused knuckles rasp over her flushed cheek, eyes wide and watchful, like he is afraid he has broken her. Like he is looking for cracks so he may find a way in to the answers she cannot give, and she feels her tongue untying under his gaze. Here in a strange room in even stranger circumstances, lips still stinging from the pressure of his mouth, she looks away before his eyes force behind walls she cannot afford to let him breach.

Her eyes drop to her hands, white knuckled against his chest, and there was a time these hands pushed and pressed against a man who held her tight like this. Till now kisses were used to hurt and humiliate. The weight of memories and things she cannot say crush against her. She can’t draw a breath around the sob rising in her throat. It is then that she realizes she is trembling like the ground before an avalanche, and just as unable to stop.

He must have felt it, read the panic on her face, heard the choked breath in her throat because he draws her tight against his chest as though he could shield her from herself. Her cheek chafes against the rough wool of his shirt between still clenched fists. The ring on her finger cuts into her skin.

“Shhhh… You needn’t be afraid. So long as you let me keep you, you are safe. I have you.” He strokes her hair and murmurs soft comfort. “I have you”

 


	8. Chapter 8

He had told her time would lose meaning in these walls, that day and night would slip together as lovers do, but she did not understand it until she woke in a disoriented panic in the perpetual dark. The air is hot and thick in her nose, her throat, and she gasps at the weight of it. It is as if her lungs are made of stone and she has not strength to fill them, but she must. She _must,_ but why? Whatever terror sleep had brought shreds to pieces as her mind grabs hold of reality. She feels the rocks beneath her palms and remembers what her rock had said. They are safe in this place. She trusts that, him, but it still takes a bit for the rest of her body to catch up her rationalization.

She sucks a gasp, air rushing in to still her racing heart, and smashes the heels of her palms against her eyes. How long had she been asleep? There was no way of knowing for sure but it does not feel like it is time to wake. Her body aches from exhaustion.

She stretches, spine cracking, and turns. It is difficult to get comfortable on the rough rock, and she shuffles around a bit, trying to find a groove to accommodate her frame. Finally she shifts and her eye catches the glow of a candle at the mouth of the cave ten feet from where she rests.

She sees him in the halo, silent and mouth slack in sleep. His hair falls golden and thick across his forehead, his neck, casting strange shadows on his heavy brow and jaw. Her fingers itch to touch that hair, to move it back from his face, to be _close_.

He had been so careful with her before, not pressing beyond what she had given, but she recalls when he had slept so close two nights before and wonders at his distance now. Especially considering - she blushes and presses a hand to her mouth. Had that really happened? She recalls the boldness, the need, but the reason escapes her.

She pulls her weight closer to him - slowly, carefully - trying her best not to wake him. She makes it inch by inch until she is within arm’s length of him. The rock scrapes her hip across the distance, but she does not dare stand. She will trip, kick a spare stone, and that is not what she wants. She just wants to be close, but knows there is no way to do so while he is awake and aware. She had seen that in his face plain enough when they had released each other. The walls had gone back up but now - oh he looks so young.

She never thought that before. Never once had it occurred to her to ask him age. He is her rock. Rocks have no age, but he is not a rock - not only a rock. He is a man. While his wisdom and experience made him seem older during waking hours, she can now see just how youth is still etched across his features.

She curls on her side, only the candle’s flame between them, and studies each line of his face. She notes the scars, the freckles, the broad lines of his cheekbones. She ponders the length of his eyelashes, the shape of his mouth, the set of his eyes. She catalogues his every trait in ways she would never be able in the sane light of day, but here….

She falls asleep wondering if she has more freckles than he.

……….

When she wakes she is stiff from sleeping on the hard ground, but her body is not sore. The aches she had nursed over the last few days are gone. She stretches into a yawn and realizes that what she is feeling is well restedness. It is a rare enough sensation in her world now that she revels in it for a moment before she opens her eyes.

When she does finally, she is greeted with darkness.

The candle is gone, and she can only assume that Bjarg is gone as well. She blinks into the empty blackness trying to reimagine him in back into the space. The further she slips from sleep however, the further his face fades into nothingness. The terror she thought she had escaped is back full force at the idea of him disappearing. She startles upright, searching the black for him, for the reassurance that he is still here.

Her eyes catch the glow from a lamp at the far edge of the cave. It is faint, but she can see the outline of a sleeve in the halo where he sits propped against the cave wall. The rest of him is obscured in shadow.

She thinks to go to him, but hesitates. He will most likely be awake now, and that means they will most likely need to talk about what had happened. They will have to acknowledge that they know the shapes of each others’ mouths, and her cheeks burn at the thought.

Made bold by drink and adventure she had stepped in and taken his mouth. Last night she had been so sure she had seen desire on his face, but what if it had only been a reflection of her own? What if she had imagined it all? What if it was nothing but a product of loneliness and proximity?

Or what if it was not?

What if he had wanted to kiss her the way she imagined she saw? What if he wants to kiss her again now? What if he did kiss her again? Oh - the thought alone sends her every hair on end.

She presses her hands to her cheeks. Her palms are damp but cool and takes a deep breath. Maybe he would not mention it at all. Maybe they could just go back to being just as they always were, but that thought makes her stomach ache.

She wonders if he can see her the way she can see him, barely sussing out edges in the darkness as she tortures herself, and if he can there is no way he does not know she is awake. She had not been subtle about it. She sucks in another breath of the thick, wet air and presses a hand flat to her stomach. Now is not the time for timidity, but she cannot fight the way her legs shake as she pushes up to stand.

What if he did not want her? What if he did?

The lantern hoists at the sound of her approaching steps. His face pulls up in the light, all sharp edges and shadows, but she thinks she can still see his hidden youth in the soft corners of his eyes.

“You are awake.” He says as she enters the radius of light, but he does not stand to greet her. “Are you hungry?”

It is not a question she had expected and she has to think before replying.

“Not particularly, though I am thirsty.” Her voice cracked a bit as she spoke as if to prove her point.

He sets down the lantern as he turns to his side and rummages through his pack. He removes a costrel and tosses it in her direction. She fumbles to catch it. The leather is slick and familiar in her palms. She remembers the warmth and courage the akvavit had given her the night previous, considers it, and decides the strength of it may be exactly what she needs at this moment. She raises the costrel to her lips and drinks.

The liquid does not have the warm bite she expects however. Instead it stains her mouth and throat with a bright invasive cold that seems so out of place in the sulfurous warmth of the cavern that she coughs upon swallowing.

“The first snow fell last night. It is said that drinking of it can help sustain you through the long winter.”

She knows better than to ask where he had learned that. She drinks again and steels herself against the impulse to cough.

She wipes her spare hand across her mouth.

“Thank you.”

She feels the distance between them, uncomfortable and gaping, though she is close. Silence will not bridge it but she has no words for him, nothing to fill the void. So she steps closer, light growing bright on her skirts, and sits across from him. She can see his face now, eyes glistening and guarded. He regards her with a gaze that reminds her the tingling sensation the snow water left in the back of her throat. The heightened awareness, the unexpected strength, all settle deep in the base of her stomach and fester.

She extends the costrel back to him, mindful during the exchange of fingers as they brush, and tries to not let the current of sensation overwhelm her.

“I wanted that we would stay a few days here in hiding, but the snow means we must move soon before the pass becomes too treacherous for travel.”

She thinks of her plan for escape, how the thought of snow had spurred her to run, and her heartbeat soars at the crushing weight of the permanent weight of her promise. _You may keep me_. She had said it. She had meant it, though perhaps obliquely. The winter season set in long and deep in the Arendelle valley, so much more in the mountains, and she looks at the man across from her with a new understanding.

She had not left the castle for this.

This is exactly for which she had left the castle.

She swallows against the lasting tang of the snow water.

“Shall I prepare to leave then?”

The weight of her question hangs in the air. She knows the double meaning of it as well as he does. She is a liability. Traveling with her means he could never make it back to his homestead. If she knows that even in her ignorance of so much of how the world works then she knows that he knows the truth of it ten-fold.

She does not know how she would start again without him, not so close to Arendelle, to a sister who did not want her so much as she did not want the disgrace of Anna running away from home. _Home_. The word sticks out in her mind as she tries to reconcile it to the palace and comes up wanting. Her memory has reduced the palace to nothing more than a place she once occupied. The idea of home looks more and more like his face in this dim lamplight, but she cannot expect him to honor that notion. She will never expect him to keep her as his burden even as a glint of gold burns bright on her finger. The weight of their kiss lingers.

She will go.

She will.

If he does not want her.

She will go.

He does not respond for an eternity. Her gaze goes from her hands to his face, and then back. She will not beg. She will not need this. She cannot let herself need anyone quite so much again. Needing only led to disappoint and she has had enough of that to last ten lifetimes.

Finally he speaks, voice hoarse. “I have seen to the necessary preparations.”

She nods.

She knows he means to give her a choice the way she had given him one, but she also knows that their decisions are already made.

“Where you go, I will follow.” She meets his eyes at this, catches the hesitation and hope that glimmers there, and swallows it. “I will follow.”  

A muscle in his cheek twitches and he rubs one hand over his mouth like he is trapping her promise to his lips. Inscrutable eyes never leave hers and her stomach knots with a honeyed feeling, sticky sweet and thick, until she can hardly swallow.

“Then prepare yourself.” He fumbles in the darkness for a second lantern and lights it before placing it in front of her skirts. “We leave as soon as we are able.”

…..

The wagon ride is swift and silent. This is mostly aided by the fact that she is in the back with the cargo instead of beside him in the front of the sleigh. This was the best way, they decided, to avoid detection. If the Arendelle guards were looking for two to bring to justice how innocent might just one seem?

He had tucked her into a crevice between salt bags and supplies crates and covered her with wool yardage purchased for this year’s clothes. _We are a day’s journey from home. Keep still. I will let you know when it is safe._

He had touched her cheek then, just barely, before covering her face and going to the front to drive. It could have been an accident. The brush, only a forefinger against the sharpest point of her cheek, keeps her warm for hours beneath the blanket. She has had far less hope to fuel her for far longer and she settles in for the long ride.

She cannot see, but it feels and sounds as though they are taking roads less traveled. Her spine and hips ache with each unpredictable jostle and bounce. She bites her lip against complaint. After all, she has suffered worse, but that had been quick compared to this. This is an untold amount of time of merciless bumps and bruises on fragile bones but she now knows can take this and so much more, so she stays quiet.

In this moment she realizes the value of silence the way she knows it now.

In the palace, silence had been a punishment. Here, silence is a privilege, a strategy, a benevolent friend. Here knowledge is power and the withholding of knowledge even more so. Silence is a shield, but it has a price. The weight silence can have in and of itself is something she is only now understanding. So she stays still and counts her breath against the passing seconds the way she used to in the shadow of her mother’s favorite antique clock.

There are moments where her counting fades to nothing and she wakes to the idea of warmth but only feels cold. They must be further north. The slipping temperatures gives it away. So she thinks of him, his fingers brushing her cheekbone, his kiss. She thinks of the slick searching heat of his tongue against her lips and she feels warm.

It is only when she feels warm that she sleeps.

…..

They only stop once deep in the unfamiliar woods so that she can stretch and Sven can rest. Her body creaks and cracks as she pulls and twists her stiff muscles to extract herself from her hiding place. She blinks in the dim winter light taking in the unfamiliar woods as she stands. He is there beside Sven’s flank and when her eyes find him he is already watching her. Her skin prickles at the attention, cheeks warming, and she stumbles over a crate.

He is at the side of the sleigh in an instant, reaching. “Easy now.”

She reaches for his extended hand, gloved against the cold, and steadies herself as she comes to the edge of the sleigh bed. His hands go to her waist now and she can feel their warmth pressing through the layers of her clothes. He lifts her down but does not step away, does not remove his hands. He stays close enough that if she breathes too deeply her chest will brush his stomach. Her back presses into the firm wood of the sleigh, her own gloved hands linger at the crooks of his elbows, and she lifts her head to look at him.

She knew he was close, inescapably so, but to see it is so different from knowing it. It knocks the strength out of her legs and she leans back against the sleigh for support, breath catching. To see him this close alert and awake is so different than seeing him close and calm in sleep. Her mind struggles to reconcile the differences and how these two distinctly separate versions of this man could exist at the same time.

“Easy. I have you.” The timbre of his voice reverberates into her. “There you are now.”

“Here I am then.” Her own voice sounds so small in comparison to his.

He shifts his weight, not closer per say, but the movement causes her to startle. She had not meant it, had not anticipated the shiver to run up her spine and out through her extremities, but it came nonetheless. She feels the tendons of his arms tighten even as his eyes soften in response.

“I will never seek to take what you are not fully prepared to give.” His gaze does not waver from hers even as dusky color rises in his cheeks.

She understands what he saying, implying, in his phrasing and proximity. She also knows this will be the only time they will speak of what passed between them in the cave and perhaps they would be better for it. Less talking meant less opportunities for her to reveal the truth that grew heavier with each day.

She swallows a mouthful of nothing.  

“I know.”

She says and feels foolish despite its truth. He holds her eyes, her waist, a moment longer before stepping back with a sigh. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out some of the roots they did not eat the night before and gives them to her.

“We will not rest here for long. We still have far to go.”

…..

Her mind wanders as she lays back in her hiding place. The tendrils of her thoughts spread and coil around each sound, each sensation, as her world is reduced to nothing but the small space beneath the cloth. It reminds her of the warm damp world of the cave and it is easy enough to close her eyes and imagine she is still wrapped in its safety. Its walls had made her brave, even if just for an instant.

If it was not today, then there would be another. She can not leave now that winter has fallen. She will have to wait until the weather shifted to kinder tempers. She will have to remain with _Bjarg_. The idea is not as unpleasant as it should be.

She hopes with all of her heart she will have the courage to do what is needed, whatever that is, when the time comes.

…..

It is different than the other bumps, this one that wakes her. It is larger, harder, and she groans. It is slight and unintentional, but it is there. She bites her lip, but only after she realized it is too late. Only after she realizes there are other voices present. Panic bubbles in her chest. She wants to sit up and see what is happening. She wants to see _Bjarg_ and make sure he is safe. She does neither.

Instead she strains her ears to try to pick up what is being said, who is speaking, and for what purpose. She holds her breath and listens.

“Gunnar speaks without knowing the weight of his words.” It is _Bjarg_ , she is sure.

“You know the code of our lands. A challenge like this cannot be left unmet.” This second voice is low, rough, and she does not know it.

“Whatever was done was done out of protection and self preservation.”

She hears a murmur swell up from around the sleigh and she realizes that must be quite the crowd gathered.

“See! He admits it.” It is another voice, male, and frantic. “He admits to killing my brothers!”

The murmuring continues to grow in both volume and violence. Her heart jumps to her throat.

“I admit only to doing what needed doing.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice is loud, steady, but she hears his urgency too.

“Murderer!” Someone yells and the sleigh rocks as though a great wind hit it.

“It is his word against Gunnar’s.” The sleigh rocks the opposite way and she is tossed along with it.

“He doesn’t deny it!”

“He is guilty as his mother was!”

The cries come louder and faster and the sleigh rattles with the press of bodies. She tries to hear how many distinct voices were present, but it is impossible. All she knows is that there are far too many for _Bjarg_ to fight off on his own.

“I have done nothing any of you wouldn’t have done.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice booms above the other cries, but it falls on deaf ear.

“None of us would kill in cold blood!”

“Not in cold blood - in protection of another.”

“Then if you are so noble where is this other you protected?”

The question is left unmet and she realizes he will not reveal her. He had promised her his protection, shown her he would cover her life with his without thought of the cost, and he is doing that now. The sleigh shakes with renewed vigor and the angry shouts rise but she cannot understand them. Her mind is whirring too quickly to possibly decipher words.

He had told her to keep still, but he could not have foreseen this. She has to save him as he has saved her.

Before she can rethink her decision or its possible repercussions - she stands.

Her legs tremble beneath her as she sleigh bed, cover falling away, and her presence brings a sudden hush to the mob. There are only seven men on the ground, but they are rough and angry. Her eyes find the face of the one dark brother she had seen not three days before and the sight of him makes her nauseous. If she has the same affect on him she cannot tell, but the rest of the group gapes.Their faces are frozen in surprise at her appearance, miraculous to them no doubt.  

“I am here.” Her voice shakes. “I am the one he protected.”

She looks to _Bjarg_ for courage. His expression is slack, horrified, and she does not understand. Why did he look at her this way?

Before she can pursue that thought any further - one of them men recovers from his stupor.

“ _Who_ the devil is she and _where_ the devil did she come from?”

 _Bjarg_ ’s expression shifted just enough and it is like she can hear his thoughts, just this once, the way he always seems to do with her.

He says: _I wish I knew._


	9. Chapter 9

She had not thought this through. The instinct to protect had outweighed rational thinking. Where she had meant to help, however, is quickly proving to be the opposite. She looks to _Bjarg_ with supplication but he does not meet her gaze. His attentions are focused on the men leaning their strength and weight against the perimeter of his sleigh, taking into account the worth of each one.

She notices that his gaze lingers just that much longer on the black-haired brother from the woods. Does he regret not dispatching him the way he had his companions? Did she? Despite the thickness of her cloak and the warmth of the scarf around her head, a shiver runs down her spine and she thinks of blood.

“This is my wife and the one this man attacked alongside his brothers.”

The leader of the band of men, a man built like an ox with thick gray whiskers cutting irregular lines down his portly cheeks, scans them both with steely eyes. Her throat tightens under his examination but she tries her best not to shrink from his gaze.

“She is nary one of us.” His eyes linger up her though it is clear his words are not directed towards her. “From where’s she hale?”

 _Bjarg_ looks at her now. The sharp sadness in his eyes cuts her to the quick. It has been all too easy to ignore these glaring holes in her history, in his, when it had just been the two of them all too happy to ignore their pasts but now…. She cannot help him. She still is ill adept at lying, but she wishes more now than ever to be able to end this charade. She senses, however, that the revelation of her true identity will do nothing to aid their current situation.

Still his gaze compels her. She sees in them a wasteland of wounds her silence has wrought. Her lips tremble to speak, but nothing comes out. She shakes her head, the slightest of motions, and sees understanding overtake his features.

_Not here._

“She belongs with me now.”

From the group’s expressions she can tell that _Bjarg’s_ answer did little to ease them in their fervor.

“Ragi outed you’d taken a wife a bit back.” The gray-whiskered man’s mustache twitches as he speaks. “None of us quite believed him. I dinna wager many of us quite believe it yet. Have ye witnesses of yer binding?”

The tendons on _Bjarg’s_ neck swell and bunch as he shakes his head.

“We had no time nor means to see to it properly.”

His words send a ripple of dark murmurs through the men. Their eyes spark at this and lay on her the fire of condemnation. While she may not understand the specifics, she does grasp the general implication made by _Bjarg’s_ denial. Heat rushes up her neck to her cheeks as she realizes what the men around her must think of her now. Their leers told her just what they were thinking.

“Ya killed my brothers for yer whore!” The small dark man, his unkempt hair and beard making him seem all the more ferocious, swipes a hand at her from his place at the edge of the sleigh bed.

She yelps, but has nowhere to retreat even as his fingers brush the billowing fabric of her skirt. _Bjarg_ is on his feet in an instant, his hand on the his rondel.

“Men who act as wild beasts are treated thusly.” He towers above the rest from his place in the sleigh though it is clear his height would surpass most of them without the aid. “I admit only that I have reason for regret, but I would not change a single step I have taken.”

She wants to move closer to _Bjarg._ She wants to draw from his surety and strength, but she does not dare move. Her position in the center of the sleigh bed is as fortified a hold as she can hope in these circumstances. She does, however, recall the weight and bite of the blade in her pocket and finds the handle of it in her gloved hand.

“There is nary a sound reason to take the lives of men aside protecting what belongs to ya.” Gray Whiskers says and the men nod in agreement. “But this _jente_ is a stranger to us and our land. She is nary yer blood by birth or rite. Any defense of her goes against our code. We canna let the dead rest on yer word solely.”

He does not speak to excite passion, but his words provoke it regardless. She can see the brutal energy remounting in their eyes and whatever their ways or codes are she knows that the situation she finds herself in with _Bjarg_ are well outside of their protection. Her hand tightens on her dagger, ready, and she looks to _Bjarg_ for a signal of what to do to against find him looking anywhere but her.

His dark eyes, often so warm when engaging hers, surveys the men with cool efficiency she has only seen from him when he has resolved himself past the stress of any given moment to a place of surreal calm. It is the look she has seen all too many times when she has made a mess of things with her impulsivity. It is the look that tells her that he will do his all to make everything right again though it may not be an easy road.

Her stomach tightens.

“You find my word alone to be wanting.” _Bjarg’s_ tone is measured. “Though I have done nothing to deserve your doubt nor a single action beyond what you would do to protect a single sow in your pens.”

A few of the men fidget but Gray Whiskers remains resolute, but there is a softness in his tone that almost sounds apologetic. “Blood shed without a blood bond is no small thing, _mǫgr_.”

 _Bjarg_ nods and sets his jaw. His eyes go to the small dark man, Gunnar _Bjarg_ had called him, fingers tightening on his rondel. If looks could kill then both men would fall dead in that instant.

“Then prepare the hollow and summon who you will for if what code demands is blood for blood and witnesses to abide - then you shall have both at first light tomorrow.” He looks back at her then and her heart stops at the intensity of it. “But if any so much as harm a hair on her head before then know that there is no code that will keep you safe from me.”

…..

They do not allow her to remain with him. _Bjarg_ had assured her that this is expected given the circumstances and the code, but she is still uncertain exactly what the code entails. She recalls that bleak conversation in the sleigh before departing towards Arendelle, of _Bjarg_ promising to explain to her the rules of these woods, but she could never have imagined needing to know them this quickly. She never imagined any of this.

She is taken from the sleigh bed (always kept a safe distance from Gunnar and his dark glare) and put astride the back of a dun fjord horse led by Gray Whiskers as _Bjarg_ is led by two others in his sleigh in what she assumes is the direction of his cabin. Gunnar is left in the care of the other men. His black eyes shoot daggers the entire time, but she cannot focus on him. Her eyes are too busy trying to keep _Bjarg_ in her sights, but he is gone all too soon.

They have been apart many times before, but never like this.

“Have ye any kin about _meyla_?” Gray Whiskers asks, but she barely hears him. Her heart hammers too hard.

She shakes her head unable to find her voice as her eyes remain focused on the place where _Bjarg_ had disappeared. He has to come back. He promised to protect her. Her can not just leave her here now.

“No? Then ye will be safe enough in my home till the rites are seen through. My wife will prepare ye as best she can in the time.”

He starts to lead the horse the opposite direction of where _Bjarg_ had disappeared and she balks.

“Wait!” How can she be safe without him?

He stops. She feels his gaze on her hard and curious at the same time.

“What be the trouble? Ye need something?”

She needs _Bjarg_.

She swallows hard and scans the woods for one last glimpse of him. She finds nothing, and has the sinking feeling in her gut that this is the end. This is the last time she sees him. Her eyes burn at the thought. She can barely entertain the idea, but her mind presses the issue.

There is nothing she can do yet, but through the haze of panic she realizes that opportunity may present itself yet. She thinks of Gray Whiskers and the home has offered for the night. She has run from home, or whatever her present semblance of the idea had been, before this night more than once. Surely she can do the same again.

Her head aches as she shakes it once more. She will not allow some unknown rite to control her future anymore then she will allow it to control _Bjarg’s_.

“Very well then.” Gray Whiskers says in the interim. “Off to home then.”

…..

It is not a long ride to where Gray Whiskers calls home. The sun has barely changed positions in the afternoon sky by the time smoke from a chimney is visible above the treeline.

She has never thought herself much one for silence. She has never once considered that anything outside of _Bjarg’s_ silence would be useful, but for every passing step of the horse beneath her she is thankful that her guide remains reticent. She has, after all, still not learned the art of deception. She has also noted that in the brief time she has been exposed to those other then her rock that their speech has been rougher than that she has been exposed to in the castle or _Bjarg’s_ home. Surely even speaking will give her away as something different so she makes a silent pledge to bite her tongue.

She has been watching during these quiet moments trailing through the woods, trying to get her bearings. She thinks about the map that had returned to _Bjarg’s_ chest before their trip to Arendelle and she wishes she had kept it. It would have improved her chances of successful escape a hundred fold, or at least she tells herself that. She pushes the memories of the last time she escaped into the woods with a map into the back of her mind.

She cannot be mindful of her failure now or it will make her too afraid to accomplish what she must.

They break through a thick copse into a clearing where a log cabin, bigger than _Bjarg’s_ , sits. Her spine stiffens at the sight of it. Whatever shield of silence that had erected itself around her during the journey is soon to be smashed. She can feel it.

“Ya need help down then, _meyla_?” Gray Whiskers’ voice snaps her from her own thoughts.

She looks down at him from where he stands with the reins in hand, gray eyes peering at her curiously. She shakes her head, not yet trusting her voice, and grabs a fistful of mane to help her slide to the ground.

Her landing is not graceful, but she stays on her feet. Gray Whiskers does not move to aid her. She is equally grateful and put out. She straightens her skirt and tries to not look anything like how she feels.

“Ya can wait fer me by the door. Dunna go in afore I put up Jorunn. Ya will be big enough a shock without ya tramping in unannounced.” Gray Whiskers nods towards the house and he is off to put up the horse before she can say a word to object.

She watches him go for a moment. He favors his left leg and it gives him a strange, stilted gait that she can tell he tries to hide as much as he can. She had not noticed as he had walked alongside her this past mile. He carried his round form proudly, but now she sees it plainly. When he makes it to what she assumes is their small barn, she looks at the door of the home she will enter soon. Her heart pounds at the idea.

She can run now. There is at least an hour of daylight left. With Gray Whiskers’ limp and the head start she could stand a chance. She can run back over the tracks in the snow that they left coming in she he can not trace her. She can run back to where she had been taken from _Bjarg_ and follow the sleigh track. She can fall on her knees and tell him everything and ask him to run with her.

And they would. They would run and hide and start again and it would be all she has hoped for these long lonely years. That is - unless it was not. What if she told him the truth and he rejected her? He has built a life here in these woods and to ask him to leave it is presumptuous at best. Can she do it? Can she bring herself to say the words that will put them both at such risk?

Will he even believe her?  She looks at her shabby clothes and work worn hands and barely believes her royal pedigree herself. She knows she is crazy to think anyone else will believe it, even _Bjarg_.

But still she had to try. Did she not? She cannot leave their fates up to the strange code of these dark woods.

She runs. The snow and her skirts hinder her as much as her shaking legs slow her pace. She gets about twenty yards before a deft _woosh_ buzzes past her ear followed by a solid thud. She freezes as her eyes follow the noise to where an arrow jitters from its place in the trunk of a nearby tree. Her heart leaps to her throat at the sight and she whirls to find the source.

Gray Whiskers approaches her. His stilted gait grows more pronounced when put under the strain of speed. Any gentleness that had lived in his expression before now is replaced with a paternal sternness that makes her think that perhaps he would beat her with a switch the way she had heard was done to insolent children of simple birth. The recollection inspires the idea to run all over again, but the bow and arrow at his side make a convincing argument to stay put.

“Ya best not get any fool headed notions in that fair head of yours.” He says as he nears. “I am obliged to deliver ya to the hollow on the morrow on my honor and ya best bet I will see it done.”

He is close enough now that she considers the weight of her blade in her pocket and wonders with trembling knees what kind of blow it would take to sink a man of this size to her mercy. He is not as tall as _Bjarg_ but his shoulders, and most every other part of him, is wider. Is her blade even long enough to penetrate anything of value? She feels sick.

He is close enough to touch her now but steps past her instead. One thick hand wraps around the base of the arrow and he twists and pulls it from the trunk with stunning fluidity. The arrow pops loose with as little effort as she would employee removing mushrooms from soft ground.

This display assures her that despite his limp, this man is fully capable.

He turns back to her and meets her gaze. “Now turn yerself back around _jente_. I have chores that will nary do themselves.”

…..

The first thing she thinks upon entering the cabin is that it is warm. The warmth is different than the damp heat of the cave. It is smoky and thick, but inviting nonetheless after hours in the cold. It is only after the temperature has registered that the rest of it falls into place.

The door leads into a common area larger than the one she shares with _Bjarg_. There are two cots covered with pelts and woven wares on one wall which remind her of the place she has slept for the last few months. There is another door on the back wall, but it is shut. Shelves on the walls hold a meager assortment of dishes and utensils. Roots and herbs hang from the rafters suspending the sod roof the same way they had in _Bjarg’s_ home. A fire pit lives in the center of the room with a large kettle hovering over the well stoked flames. Standing by the black cauldron is a woman who rivals Gray Whiskers in girth. Her small eyes crowded by ruddy cheeks flash at the sight of her coming through the door.

“How now, Sigfrid! Who’s this?”

Gray Whiskers, apparently named Sigfrid, pushes her to the side to go beside the mountainous woman.

“The ice man has gone and got himself a mind to take a wife with no kin.”

“And what in Thor’s thunder does that have to do with us?”

“We’re to take her to the hollow on the dawn and must prepare her for it.”

The woman scoffs. “Ya mean I must prepare her. And I suppose I am to believe that this slip of a thing is what had the others pounding down our door like wild beasts.”

“Aye. She be part of it.”

The woman casts her a look of disdain and snorts. “Ya men always get yerselves all twisted ‘round the second a pretty face appears.”

“Mind yerself, Ketil. Ya know as well as I do this there is more afoot than a fair face. The code demands blood and blood it’ll have.” Sigfrid patted his wife’s thick shoulder before heading towards the door where she still stood. “Now give each other no trouble. I’ve spent such time sorting out all these fool problems today that I’ll be lucky ta finish half me chores afore sundown. I am in no mind to tend the petty woes of women the rest of this day.”

With that, and a stern look to both women, he leaves.

The shutting of the door makes her jump as she stands under the scrutiny of the formidable woman of the house. She squirms.

“There are no hand outs here so ya might as well get ta work.” Ketil thrusts the large stick she had been using to stir the liquid in the pot in Anna’s direction.

She hesitates, but Ketil shakes the handle in her direction indicating impatience and Anna moves. She discards her mittens. Her free hands go first to the fastener of her cloak which she rest on the ground by the door and then to the knot of the scarf around her chin. The moment her hair is free she hears a gasp and looks up to see Ketil’s small eyes bulge. She touches her face, her hair, self consciously.

“Where now did ya say ya were comin’ from?” It is not recognition that flares in the Ketil’s eyes, but the look there sets Anna’s heart galloping regardless.

She tugs on one of her braids and looks at her feet.

“N - Nowhere.” She wishes she could lie, wishes she could tell the truth.

“Nowhere? Hmph! And yer kin? Where be they?” Ketil circles the pot, coming nearer while still gripping the large handle, and Anna fights the urge to throw open the door and bolt.

“Dead.” At least that is true.

“All of them?”

“All that cared for me.” True again and though the words come easily they still sting to say.

Ketil’s pudgy face screws up with suspicion. Anna can feel the inadequacy of her answers from the tip of her head to her toes and though she shed her winter garments she feels beads of sweat build on her hairline.

“Ya got a name, _jente_?” Ketil glares down her round, stubby nose and Anna blushes scarlet.

She does not know what to say. She never knows what to say. Oh what she wouldn’t give for _Bjarg_ to burst in the door and sweep her away from this place.

At the thought of _Bjarg_ : “H - he calls me _Logi_.”

The sound of Ketil’s caustic laugh cuts her with surprise. “ _Logi_ is it? Fer yer hair, no doubt. Well then ya best get ta stirring there _Logi_. For if I’m to finish my ale and prepare ya for the hollow then we nary have a moment to waste.”

Anna takes the handle, careful to keep her skirts away from the stoked fire, and stirs. She focuses on the burning of her arms instead of the burning in her eyes and thinks of _Bjarg._

She thinks of where he might be. She thinks of what he might be doing. She wonders if he had cooperated with the men who had gone with him or if he had attempted to rebel as she had. If he had rebelled, had he succeeded? Did he know where she was? Would he come for her?

Most of all she thinks of what the dawn will bring and just what price she has made _Bjarg_ pay this time for her foolishness.


	10. Chapter 10

Once Ketil relinquishes the duty of stirring to Anna the cabin fell into tense silence punctuated only by the sounds of the fire and Ketil’s occasional muttering. A burning ache mounted in Anna’s arms with each turn of the stick in the thick mash but it held nothing to the mounting ache in her heart, her mind. Why had she ever left the palace in the first place? Had it been worse than this? Had living in the palace ever endangered anyone?

 _It was killing you_. The still, small voice whispers from the back of her mind. She winces. _But at least it wasn’t killing anyone else._

Ketil putters about the main room pulling down herbs and roots and setting them on the log table against the wall opposite the cots. She periodically disappears into the adjoining room Anna had noticed upon first entering the cabin. She watches with a mix of veiled terror and curiosity but discovers there is little to fear. All she could see from the light Ketil carries into the windowless room is a large, proper bed. No doubt it is where her hosts rest their heads as man and wife after a long day. The idea sends a surge of heat up her neck and she looks back at the pot.

After a bit, Ketil reemerges to the main room with a bundle of white tucked under one arm and a determined look on her moon face. Anna swallows.

“The mash should be done by now. Time to pour it in the _kuurna._ ” She puts the white bundle on the table and look to Anna like she has any idea what she is saying.

Anna stops stirring but does not move beyond that. Ketil cocks her head and puts her arms akimbo.

“Have ya no sense in yer head? I said it’s time to pour it out.”

Her tone is equal parts condescension and wonder.

Anna’s voice shakes. “I do not know how.”

“Don’t know how?” The older woman scoffs. “What man would take a woman who canna brew ale as a wife?”

Anna shrugs, not trusting her voice to not confess that she is not a true wife in any definition. She thinks of _Bjarg_ and hopes that someday he will find a woman worthy of him and his kindness. She hopes he will find an equal who can make ale and keep him safe and happy in ways she knows she never can. She hopes she has not robbed him of that chance. She hopes - but her hopes are cut short.

“Well yer too slight a thing to be much use doing more than preparing the buckets.” Ketil goes to the shelves, pulls down a large ladle, and hands it to her. “Ladle the mash into those and bring ‘em out to me right quick. Get to it!”

Anna snaps to action at her terse command. She spoons the steaming gruel into the appointed buckets on the floor as quickly as she can. The moment the first bucket is full, Ketil grabs the rope handle and sets out the door without closing it. Cold air force rushes into the warm, smokey interior and washes over Anna in sweet relief. The second bucket is filled before Ketil reappears so Anna lifts it, mindful not to spill, and sets off into the brisk air. She finds Ketil alongside the house spreading the contents of the first bucket into a long trough suspended with wooden beams and carpeted with juniper branches. Anna delivers her bucket just in time for Ketil to thrust her empty one into her arms.

“Dunna just stand there. It does us no good if the mash grows cold.”

Anna does not think she has been dawdling but she picks up her pace none the less. By the time she has filled and delivered her sixth and final bucket, her arms feel like the could fall off at any moment. Her lower back aches from the twisting and lifting. Fair enough she has grown stronger than she had been in her time at the castle by a great measure, but she has also always had _Bjarg_ to aid her in the more strenuous tasks.

There will be no rest for her however. Ketil comes in from her post at the _kuurna_ with her empty bucket and hands them to Anna. “These buckets will no clean themselves little one. Off to the stream we go.”

Anna follows Ketil with a bucket in each hand swinging at her side as the large woman leads her to where the stream lives behind their cabin. The top of the stream is frozen over in places but they find an opening easy enough and begin their task of scrubbing the buckets free of residual mash. The water is so cold that Anna’s fingers cramp to work in it. Once they are clean both women fill their buckets with the icy water and haul it back to the cabin.

Anna does not know if her arms are just more exhausted than normal or if the buckets are just that much larger and thus heavier than the ones _Bjarg_ keeps, but she struggles against their weight. More than once she must set them in the snow to catch her breath. Ketil sighs.

“Ya act like some fine lady who’s never had to lift nor carry a day in her life!”

Anna grimaces. If only the rough old woman knew how close her verbal arrow was to its mark.

“Pour the water in the pot and fetch us another two.” Ketil orders as soon as they are in the door.

Anna wants to balk, but she knows it will do no good. She hoists one bucket and then the other into the pot where is still hung over the fire. The water hisses and steams as it hits the heated metal and the sound makes her shiver.

She is back out in the cold trudging dutifully with her buckets for several paces when she realizes that she is alone. Ketil is not with her. She looks to the sky and squints. She has about half an hour left of daylight if she runs she might find _Bjarg_. She can follow the stream up to where his cabin lies and stop this mess from ever getting to this point. She can. She should?

Her fingers fidget on the rough rope handles of the bucket.

“Hey there _meyla_!” The call cuts through her reverie and she snaps her head towards the deep voice. It is Sigfrid coming out from the barn with his own buckets. “Best get going on yer chore. My wife is many a great thing, but patient is no one of them.”

And just like that - the opportunity is gone. Her heart sinks. She should not have hesitated. She should have run when she had the chance.

“Come on then. I am sure Ketil still has much for you to do.”

…..

By the time she is finished she has carried in no less than sixteen buckets of water from the stream. She is not sure if she has arms anymore or if they have been replaced by a bag of wet sand. Her lower back burns as if hot coals were pressed against it. She is dizzy, exhausted, and the sun is just about to set.

She carries the last buckets in and sets them on the ground before she drops them. Ketil looks up from where she is splitting and stripping juniper branches and throwing them into the pot over the fire.

“Dunna just stand there like a drudge. Empty the buckets into the tub like the rest.” She shows no sympathy for the exhaustion Anna knows must be plain in the stoop of her shoulders.

She lugs the buckets, one at a time, to a wooden tub standing beside the fire and pours them in to add to the foot of water already there. Once done, she slumps as much as her corset allows and tries to find relief for her aching muscles. She twists her torso, spine cracking, but she knows what she really needs is a good night of sleep. She also knows she is about as far from a chance of that happening tonight as she is from being able to find _Bjarg_ and escape with him.

She bites her lip. The pain of her heart is just as strong, unforgiving, and real as that in her body. She blinks against the bite of tears as she stretches her spine in a new direction.

“Ya best get on with yer washing as I can see ya will be no good to me for the _jälkijuoma_.” 

She waves in the direction of the second tub Anna had filled partway with water and Anna looks at it dumbly. She has already washed the utensils used for the making of ale. Had the woman told her to wash something and she already forgot? The woman thinks her stupid enough without adding to the weight of her embarrassment. She looks about the functional cabin for something to clean but comes up short. Her search is cut short.

“Dunna tell me ya are too modest to bathe in the company of another woman?” Ketil’s eyes hold a mix of shock and amusement and Anna understands now.

The tub is meant to be a bath for her. She looks at the calf deep water, remembers how cold it was coming from the stream, and knows it will be much less pleasant than her bathing had been in the hot spring. She also knows that bathing outside of the palace is a rarity indeed and wonders for just what purpose she needs to bathe.

She fidgets. Her mind races. Ketil looks at her again but this time her expression is less amused and much more vexed.

“Never have I seen a girl in my day be so put off about cleaning herself for her binding. A man, yes, but nary a woman.” She sets aside the branch she is stripping and cocks her head. “Now ya may already see yerself as bound to Kristoff but there are ways we do things here and if ya dunna see to it properly now it will be a stone around both yer necks.”

Anna’s throat constricts. Her heart stops. Ketil could not possibly mean….

“A binding? Tomorrow?” She wrings her callused hands and feels the ring bite into her skin. “And that is the same as a wedding?”

She cannot marry _Bjarg._ Not in any real sense that is. She cannot make a commitment she has no way of keeping. She cannot make a commitment that will further endanger his life.  She cannot imagine a life where she is anything else but his wife. Her mind jumps between thoughts so quickly it makes her dizzy

“Och! Sigfrid said ya were no of these parts but he nary said ya were daft.” Ketil shakes her head. “If ya both pass whatever trails are chosen then there will be a binding after. Ya might as well be clean for it.” Ketil does not elaborate and Anna cannot ask her to. Her mind is too full with other contingencies.

“But ya better hurry up and wash. Everyone will be in from chores soon enough and if ya be disinclined for them to see ya as ya were when ya were born then ya best snap to it.”

…..

Ketil leaves her on her own to bathe, off to see to the _jälkijuoma,_ for which Anna is glad. That way the woman will not see that she has no intention of taking off her anything if it means getting into that frigid water. She cleans as well as she can without disrobing by dipping a cloth and running it along her body beneath her clothes. Even fully dressed the water still sends its iciness into her bones and she is glad she is only compelled to complete the basest of bathing.

It is two hours after her bath and she is still shivering. Even close to the roaring fire she cannot knock the chill of the water out of her system. 

No wonder those others Ketil had seen to had experienced hesitancy. 

Or maybe it has nothing to do with the water any everything it had to do with the news that was delivered along with it. 

A wedding. _Her_ wedding. She loses all track of time as those words loop in her mind.

Dinner is simple, dark bread and meat, and Anna has not tasted a bite. She eats only because she knows she needs to for strength. Sigfrid joins them for dinner as does the two surviving children he spawned from his union to Ketil: Alva and Nadir.

Nadir, the elder of the two, is as broad as his father with shoulders like an ox and torso just as barreled. His hair is thick, a dark blonde, and extending past his temples to a lush beard. He pays Anna little mind after he finds that she is set to be properly wed on the morrow, and Anna finds little more from him than judgement radiating from small, gray eyes.

The other, Alva, is a girl not even quite her own age. She has the same dirty blonde locks that her brother sports though hers are long and bound in a simple braid down her back. She is plain, of sturdy build, and watchful nature. Her dark eyes dart around all of the participants of the table though she does not say a word. Her gaze goes often to her father, then Anna, then back to her father in a back-and-forth that feels like it has history to it.

It is clear to Anna that she is not the first guest at their table and probably not the last.

The women wash the dishes after the meal with the water Anna had carried in and the men go out to store the now filled barrels of ale in the safety of the root cellar. Once the cleaning is finished Ketil sets her hands on her wide hips and sighs.

“Well then I suppose we best prepare you as best we can with such little notice.” She looks to her daughter. “Fetch those things from the stool and let’s get to work.”

Alva jumps to action, a trait Ketil seems to require from those working with her, as her mother turns her attention back to Anna.

“Considering how ya landed in our care I’m assuming ya have no father to negotiate a dowry for ya nor any gift to be giving yer husband.”

It should be a question, but it is not.

“N-no.”Anna shakes her head and clenches her hands together in front of her skirts. Her blisters chafe.

“Well I suppose that is fitting enough. Don’t figure I know a single father in a day’s ride that would bind his daughter to Kristoff no matter how desperate he was.” She clucks her tongue and takes the bundle Alva had fetched her and unwinds it on the table.

It has been so long since Anna had heard Kristoff’s given name as commonplace and she is more sure than ever that it fits just about as well as Ketil’s assessment of him.

“Why wouldn’t - uh - why wouldn’t any father seek to give their daughters to Bja - Kristoff?”

It feels strange to ask a question about him without weighing each consequence of doing so. It feels deceptive. Anna blushes as she watches Ketil’s eyes go wide and then look to her daughter.

“And just from where in midgard do ya hale?” Alva asks.

Her voice is higher than Ketil’s gruff alto and lacks the mocking that comes through her mother as easy as breathing. As soon as she speaks her own eyes bulge and she looks to her mother in contrition. Ketil, however, shows no sign of offense as it is clear from her expression that it is the exact question she holds on her exacting tongue.

Anna says the first true thing that comes to her mind. “Sometimes it feel so very far.”

For a long moment the crackling fire is the only sound in the cabin. Then:

“Well if ya no be knowing now there be no sense in telling you this night. Wouldn’t serve us at all before the trials.” Ketil turns back to her work on the table. “But if it were me, _jente_ , I would be asking yer new husband about his mother the first chance that came my way.”

Anna’s mind goes blank at the idea. This woman and her daughter had not the knowledge of the unspoken understanding between herself and _Bjarg_ , but to ask him about his mother would be leaning against all of those silent things until they broke. Anna understand that. She understands that and its consequences completely. She also understand that these women would not, for whatever reason, tell her a thing.

She nods, palms sweating and stinging the raw flesh.

All eyes turn then to the package of assorted things Ketil has unfurled on the table. Anna’s eyes rove over the varied goods spread over the wooden surface and swallows.

Ketil looks back at her with a knowing expression. “Well then. Let’s get to work.”

…..

Alva brushes the length of Anna’s hair with a wide tooth comb fashioned from elm and polished smooth with lard. Nadir had made it for her, she explains in the few moments that Ketil is not grousing under her breath about how there will not be near enough time for find honey for mead making for a month. Anna only nods. Between Ketil’s mutterings and Alva’s whispered confidences, she finds that silence is easy enough to come by and she embraces it.

It surprises her how easy it is.

That is until Alva traces that line of white down the side of her head just the way _Bjarg_ had in the caves and her heart stops.

“This be such a funny stripe.” She says as she finger some of the white pieces. “I’ve never quite seen a thing like it.”

Anna clears her throat.

“Neither have I.” She tries to force a laugh even as she tells the truth and finds it makes the subtle lie easier.

Alva chuckles and Ketil does not stop her. The woman’s severity apparently has limits and they ease for her daughter.

Alva brushes. Anna sits. Ketil sorts. The men return.

Nadir is brusque as his parents but in a way that bespeaks his youth instead of the seasoned right that comes from his elders. He excuses himself frequently to find relief in fetch ale for himself and his father. Sigfrid watches from the other side of the room. His contemplative silence as unsettling as it is comforting.

After some time Alva finishes with the brushing of Anna’s hair and she passes the duty to Ketil. Anna immediately notices the difference in brushing style between mother and daughter. Where Alva had been kind, Ketil is not. She tears through any remaining clumps and braids Anna’s hair into tight plaits. She works dried apple blossoms and rosemary into the strands as she goes. Alva hands her mother the springs from where they lay already sorted on the table. Sigfrid and Nadir watch with a silence that bespeaks the fact this is not the first time they have seen this.

When Ketil finishes Anna’s hair is in tight braids from crown to end woven with the dried flowers herbs. The fresh scent of life is long gone from them. A different scent, one of decay and age, tickles her nose now. The musty scent of overlong death lingers and turns her stomach. She presses her hands against her abdomen and tries to be appreciative for the work and attention.

“There now. That’ll do the trick.” Ketil seems pleased with herself. “Now take this and place it beneath yer pillow tonight. If it burns true tomorrow you will have the god’s blessing over yer binding.”

Ketil hands her a rough bouquet of dried plants tied at the base with coarse twine. Anna recognizes some of them from harvesting and drying herbs with _Bjarg_.

 _Aster, bistort, rosemary_ … Her mind ticks them off as her fingers brush the brittle leafs.

Where will she sleep tonight? Would she be able to sleep at all?

“Ya have no sword to present him. No ring to offer him.” Ketil shakes her head and looks to her husband. “This’ll be a strange binding indeed.”

“Aye. But first the trials.” Sigfrid’s solemn tone sends a chill down Anna’s spine.

“Gunnar will no bear up against Kristoff in the _hólmganga_.” Nadir says between drinks. “It is no fun if the fight is no matched well.”

The term _hólmganga_ rings in her mind. She knows of the practice, had been taught it alongside other heathen practices long abolished in the wake of more civilized times during her studies in the palace. She is shocked to hear it referenced in the present tense.

“A _hólmganga_ is no for entertainment, Nadir. Have you no honor?” Alva chastises her brother but even in the reprimand Anna can sense the warmth of their affection. That awareness sends an all too familiar pang through her.

_Oh Elsa. Why did you push me away?_

The conversation continues with no regard to her inner turmoil as Nadir responds to Alva with a smile. “Oh I have honor, but what of it little sister? Honor is nary but tedious.”

“And would you rather be honorless and bring shame onto the heads of your family?”

“Don’t be daft. It is just a shame Kristoff will no have a worthy opponent.” Nadir shrugs his hulking shoulders.

“And I suppose ya think yerself to be so worthy?” Alva’s tone takes on a bit of her mother’s incredulous bite.

“Aye I do.” His eyes tighten at the challenge. “I can crack any shield with one blow of my sword.”

“Any shield?” Alva hoots. “Do ya hear that mother? He thinks he’s Odin’s son!”

Nadir’s face darkens at that. His sister’s teasing had gone too far.

“I will not have any more of this foolish talk. The _hólmganga_ calls who it must and if Nadir is called then we can hope he is as strong a he claims.” Sigfrid intercedes but Nadir is not done.

“What say ya, _jente_? Could I best the man ye are bound to on the morrow in battle?”

She looks at him from across the fire and notes that while he is not near the height of _Bjarg_ he is double the breadth. What damage could he do if he threw all that weight into a blow?

“Leave the girl be.” Sigfrid cuffs Nadir on the arm, but the youth persists.

“There be no harm in a simple question and she has said so little in our presence I wonder if I have really heard her speak at all?”

Nadir looks to Anna again and drags a hand down his mouth, his beard. His expression makes her feel as if she is on display.

“So what is it? The iceman or me?”

Anna swallows. There is something dark, challenging in Nadir’s eyes that dries her throat. She has seen _Bjarg_ fight, witnessed his ferocity, and she cannot believe that anyone could defeat him. She also sees the challenge in Nadir’s eyes, aggravated by ale, and something tightens in her stomach at the idea of defying him.

She looks down at her hands. “I thought the _hólmganga_ was forbidden by the crown. That all disputes are to be settled in the courts of Her Majesty.”

She barely finishes before there is a peal of laughter from Nadir. Alva snorts. It is Ketil that breaks finally reenters the conversation where she looks up from her work on the table.

“It is clear the small thing is far from home.” Ketil gives stern looks to her brood, but Anna does not feel far away. She does not feel far away at all. The obligation of her birth still follows her like a shadow. “Ya best set yerself up in the barn tonight, Nadir. It will no suit to have ya here in our present company.”

Nadir’s mood sours further. “Must we always take in these strays? It is no good that a man be thrown out of his own home all because of a castoff the gods nary see fit to tend themselves.”

He gestures with his mug towards Anna with such venom she cannot help but flinch.

“That’ll be enough now _mǫgr_.”  Ketil’s voice holds nothing of the gentle reprimand that she offered her daughter earlier. “Away with ya and yer temper. The ale and yer hot air will keep ya warm enough.”

Nadir looks beseechingly at his father beside him but finds indifference. With a groan and much grumbling the hulking youth pushes up and goes to the door. He pulls up the bar and opens it into the dark. The cold rushes in and fans the fire.

He reaches for the lit oil lantern on a shelf hung by the door and turns to look one more time at Anna. The look in his eyes shoots daggers into her heart.

“I hope Kristoff falls tomorrow without honor and know of others who wish the same.”

Nadir does not wait for the reprimands his family no doubt would have hurled if he had stayed but instead marches into the night without so much as collecting his hat or gloves. Alva hurries to the door, closes, and bars it.

“You mustn’t let what my brother said put ye off.” She says as she completes her task. “His temper burns quick, but never for long.”

“Aye but it only takes one fool headed choice to land him before the counsel.” Ketil hands a drawstring bag the size of her palm as she speaks. It is tied tight at the top but the contents shifts loose inside the sack. She barely notes the exchange in the wake of the capricious exit. Her mind is too busy processing the curse he lay upon _Bjarg_.

None of this makes any sense.

Anna looks up across the fire again and see Sigfrid watching her from across the flames. In the waving heat she sees the similarity of faces between father and son but sees little in terms of temperament. He looks at her as though he recognizes her, as though he knows everything, and the weight of that crushes her.

He cannot.

Can he?

Sigfrid stands, keeping her gazes the entire time.

“Dress her for the morning. We will no have time when we wake.”

With that he drains his ale, leaves the cup on his seat, and disappears the back room Anna had peered into earlier in the day.

This left the women alone by the light of the fire. Ketil assumes control.

“All right then. Off with this dress now.”

She grips Anna’s elbow and pulls her to stand. Anna’s back aches against the movement, her hands full with the dried bouquet and bag of undisclosed contents, but she does so dutifully. Alva frees Anna’s hands and takes the items to the cot across the way as Ketil begins unfastening Anna’s gown. The dress is simply made. Anna’s skills had not allowed for anything elaborate in its creation and it is quickly loose enough to work over her head. The corset beneath however is anything but simple.

The undergarments are the only pieces she has kept from her time in The Before. They are made of the finest fabrics with tiny stitches and embellishments. Even with the bloodstains it is far finer, and far more impractical, piece of clothing than anyone at her supposed station should own. She hears Ketil suck a breath at the sight of it. Alva also hesitates to take in the newness of it.

“No wonder ya could hardly carry buckets in such frippery.” Ketil tries to cover her surprise with bluster. “It will no do for the trials. Yer gonna want something simpler.”

Ketil begins tugging hard at the laces on the back till the article falls loose enough around her to slip over her head in the same fashion as her dress. Alva takes the discarded garment and adds it to what appears to be a growing pile of things they must not forget upon the morrow.  This left her in her chemise, still too fine a fabric for who she is now, but stained and worn now enough to disguise it. Ketil grabs her shoulder and turns Anna to face her.

“Yer to wear this tomorrow.” She hands her the white fabric she had seen her carry in earlier.

Anna unfurls it and sees a plain shift made of coarse fabric and simple stays. It is much too large for her small frame, and wonders how she would have reacted to such a gift only a few months ago. Would she have balked at its lack of refinement? Would she had frowned at its poor fit and quality? All she can know is that she understands that each gift in this world means a loss felt dearly by another.

She feels herself crack under the weight of their forced generosity. A single tear races down her cheek and she tries to hide it.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Later that night after she changes into the rough shift and stays, tightens them as far as she can, and tucks herself into the cot beside the wall does she have the chance to acknowledge that this is real. This smoke-y cabin, the young girl in the cot next to her, the feel of the rough wool against her skin are all real. This is real. Which means that whatever is coming at the dawn is real as well. _Bjarg_ has not come nor has she been able to go to him and this is what it is now.

Ketil has long since retired to her room with her husband leaving Anna and Alva alone in the main room with the smoldering embers casting eerie shadows on the walls. Anna stares at the ceiling. The apple blossoms and rosemary poke out from her braids into her scalp and she cannot find a good way to rest her head to avoid it. It is all the same. She knows she will not sleep tonight.

She wishes she could speak the Alva, to confide in her the way she has always wished Elsa would confide in her, but it is not realistic. It cannot happen. So instead she listens to Alva’s breathing beside her and try to drift into the bottomless bliss of sleep.

“Yer lucky ya know.” Alva whispers into the space between them. “We’ve had girls here nigh on a week waiting for their bindings in an odd case like this.”  
Anna swallows a mouthful of nothing. She does not feel lucky.

“Best pray thanks tomorrow on your husband’s sword that this all happened on Thor’s day. If I were in yer place and had to wait more than a day for my binding I would feed myself to a troll.”

The only reason she prays thanks is that the room is dark enough that Alva cannot see the tears in her eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> art by the amazing Sara: http://bearstoff.tumblr.com/

It begins with a shake of her shoulder.

She does not remember falling asleep. Her head feels heavy, fuzzy. Her eyes are gritty. When she opens them it is mostly dark beside the earnest expression of Alva illuminated by lamplight above her.

“It’s time.”

It does not take Anna long to remember exactly where they need to go. She rises, bare feet crunching in the straw and dirt, and finds her boots where she left them. Her feet slide in without her wool stockings. Alva told her the night before that she will not need them where they are going. A cloak drapes over her shoulders but she does not dress beyond the oversized shift and stays bequeathed to her the night before. The only other thing she grabs is the bouquet of assorted dried herbs from beneath her pillow.

“Have ya everything?” Ketil asks and Anna holds up the bouquet.

“And the seeds?”

It takes Anna’s exhausted mind a moment too long to process what it is being asked. Ketil does not show her grace even at this early hour.

“The bag I gave ya last night. The one that fit clean in the palm of yer hand.”

Anna blinks and reaches into her bodice and withdraws the bag in question. She had not known the contents until now. Seeds? What need does she have of seeds at this hour? Ketil gives a snort (whether it is of approval or disgust Anna does not know) and takes one last look around the cabin by lamplight.

“Sigfrid’s gone ahead to see to assemble the counsel. We must make haste. Dawn is nearly upon us.” She opens the door and Anna draws the cloak up tight around her throat.

She wishes she could be more practically dressed.

Nadir is there outside waiting. His expression is just as dark as it was the night before and Anna does her best to not look his way. She finds it difficult, especially since he leads them on their journey.

They travel by foot. Alva stays by her side while Ketil takes up the rear and Anna cannot help but think that this is just as much for practicality in regards to the width of the path between the trees as it does towards guarding her on all sides. Icy snow had fallen during the night. It crunches up around her ankles. She would be hard pressed to sneak off into the dark considering the racket she makes with each step.

Still - if the opportunity presents itself…

Anna’s heart beats an uneven tempo to match her staggered steps. The dark and her distracted thoughts do not help. They must have walked near half a mile now through the barren brush with the moon and stars hidden behind clouds and useless. They did not follow the creek. Even if she she does manage to get away she knows she will have little chance of getting anywhere useful and no chance of finding _Bjarg_.

The sky is just barely glowing around the edges when they cross a field and pause before a thick copse of trees. Nadir turns. The lantern in his hand casts dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“Bind her wrists.”

He tugs a length of rope from his belt and throws it to his sister. Alva catches it and steps in front of Anna.

“Hold out yer hands.” She says and Anna obeys.

Alva’s hands are sure and swift as they loop the rope around Anna’s wrists and pull. The drag of the rough cording across her skin burns despite her numbness. She tries not to wince but fails.

“Mind ya dunna fall.” Alva whispers as she tightens the knots.

“What?” Anna whispers back. She wants to know as much as she does not.

“In the dark wood. Mind ya dunna fall. Nadir would take too much pleasure in slitting your pretty throat for being unworthy to enter the sacred hollow.” She looks up from her work and meets Anna’s eyes.

Anna does not know Alva well enough to know if she is being plain or elaborating the consequences of a fall, but anything seems possible. She swallows despite her mouth being dry and nods. She will not fall. For her sake - and for _Bjarg_ ’s.

“Come on now then!” Ketil prods. “If ya got her tied we best get a move on. The counsel no likes to be kept waiting.”

Anna does not know where to keep her eyes as she steps onto the trail leading her past the treeline. She tries to watch her feet, Nadir’s back, and for a chance to escape all at once in the blossoming light. All her split attention gives her is a blood chilling moment when the toe of her boot catches a root. She staggers. Alva’s hand comes beneath her elbow, firm and steady, and when Nadir turns to investigate Anna has righted herself. Nadir’s eyes linger, cold and dark, where Alva’s hand grips Anna’s arm. Alva pulls herself taller, nearly the height of her brother, and keeps walking which forces him to turn and do the same.

Behind them Ketil snorts.

Anna looks Alva’s way when she fails to release her arm, but her contemporary keeps her focus on the path ahead of them. Anna now understands that what Alva had said while tying her wrists is no exaggeration. She clutches the dried bouquet a little tighter in her bound hands.

There will be no escape.

A new weight settles deep in her heart. All this time _Bjarg_ had fought for her safety, but for what? She has nothing to give him, nothing to offer. She cannot be his wife properly any more than she can afford to stay and try. It is too dangerous, unfair.

The ring he gave her burns hot on her finger. It was never supposed to mean anything. It is only supposed to keep her safe but she thinks perhaps there is no safety in this wood. Not truly.

Or perhaps she is deficient, as unsuited to this rough world as she had been to her life in the palace. Elsa had thought so, or so it seemed. Ketil seems to as well. How can she expect safety in a place she so clearly did not belong?

Will she ever belong anywhere? She hopes so, but with each step it is coming more and more clear that she will first have to pass whatever waits for her at the end of this journey if she even wants the chance.

They break through a few minutes later into a clearing lined by birch trees.

She scans the area. Her eyes are frantic in the dim dawn light. There is a large fire built up in the center of the clearing with a caldron suspended atop it. At the far side across the fire an altar is built up of large stones and looped with garlands of pine. The white barked trees stand like sentries guarding the large circular space against unwanted intruders. Or perhaps - she thinks as she takes in the surly crowd assembled there - it is to keep people in.

All else fades as her gaze settles on the group of surly men and work worn women standing next to the alter. There were about a dozen in all and at her appearance a murmur went through them. She finds Sigfrid easily enough, but her eyes do not stay on him. There in front of him, bound and dressed as plain as she, is Gunnar. His dark eyes, sharp as daggers, glower from his thick mop of hair and her blood runs cold.

If he is here then where is _Bjarg_?

Her heart thunders in her ears. Has he finally had enough of her and the problems she brings? Has he decided not to come? She is not sure that is an option, but she does not understand where he is if not here.

Alva leads her beside the fire and stops Anna there. Alva steps past her then to join her father with her brother and mother. Anna cannot feel the heat nor the chill in the air. She cannot feel anything. She stares at the unfamiliar, unforgiving crowd before her and she cannot feel anything but the stinging realization that she is alone.

She thought she had experienced all of the ways she could feel loneliness. She thought the hours, days, weeks, years in the palace had bled the ability to be hurt by isolation clean out of her. She is wrong.

Sigfrid steps out in front of the crowd with five other men as weathered as he. She thinks she recognizes a few from the wagon scene the day before, but she cannot be certain. She cannot care. A strange floating feelings takes over and it takes her a moment to realize that they are not going to wait for _Bjarg_.

Anna pulls herself up to full of her height, but still feels her spirit shrink.

A hulking man, gray and grizzled, speaks from behind a face full of whiskers.

“You are a stranger here, Sigfrid tells us, and unfamiliar with our customs.” His voice is thick and graveled.

It is not a question but she answers with a nod.

“Then know the charge against ye is grave indeed. Gunnar says ye helped in killing his brother without honor. Have ye anything to say on the matter?”

Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. There is so many things to say, but nothing that will convince these stern strangers of her innocence.

_You are a princess._

But is she? The thought chokes her. She does not know who she is anymore.

“They attacked me. They t-they tore at me.” She feels herself shrinking. “They would have done worse if - if - _Bjarg_ \- Kristoff - ”

She chokes at the thought of him.

He is not here.

She is thoroughly and completely alone.

“But have you witnesses aside your protector?” The large leader cuts off her stammering.

She shakes her head, eyes burning.

“Then the gods must decide the truth of her words. We must put her to trial.” Large Leader says, but she does not know what he means. Her eyes go to Sigfrid, the only familiar eyes in the group, and she wishes she could plead with him. Despite a night under his roof, she knows he had no reason to believe her story any more than the rest of this group.

A stranger, uncouth with blonde hair so light it is almost silver, takes her arm. She startles. She had not heard him approach, had not anticipated his touch. In the early dawn light the color of his skin blends seamlessly into his hairline giving him an otherworldly appearance. His small eyes are dark and cutting as he pulls her with no suggestion towards the caldron. The assembly follows, forming a ring around the fire as she is brought to the center. She grips her dry flowers tighter.

The eerie blonde unbinds her wrists as Large Leader explains. “Pluck to the stone from the bottom of the pot and take nine paces round the fire. If ya are successful and the wound no turns foul then yer words are true.”

Anna’s throat tightens. She looks at the water in the caldron. It roils under her gaze and her stomach drops.

“From the bottom of this pot?” She hopes she has misunderstood.

“Yes.”

Despite the cold a sweat breaks out on the back of her neck. “Now?”

Large Leader looks to the elders around him and mutters. The gathering echoes his dark whispers. It is clear he means what he said. She catches Alva’s earnest gaze next to the dark one of her brother. She sees Ketil’s indifference, Gunnar’s rage, but when her gaze comes to Sigfrid who looks at her with an expression much like his daughter’s.

“The time is now, _meyla._ ”

She does not need to ask about the alternative. A cold stone settles in the center of her chest. This is it. This is what she has chosen.

Eerie Blonde takes the dried flowers from her fist and gestures at the fastener for her cloak. Stiffly she unclasps it and gives it over to his waiting hands. She fails from keeping the tremor from her hands. Now exposed and shivering she thinks she should want to be closer to the fire, but the idea terrifies her. She tried to breathe and takes small shaking steps until she is close to see within the cauldron. She sees the stone, small and smooth, bouncing beneath a foot of steaming water.

_Do not think. Do it. If you think you will -_

She interrupts herself by plunging one hand deep into the boiling water. The rush of scalding heat along her frosted skin makes her dizzy. The only thing that keeps her from fainting is the idea that somehow, someway, by doing this she is saving _Bjarg_ some heartache. Surely her completion of this task will clear his name to some degree?

Her fingertips graze the stone. It takes a breath to remember how to move her fingers. The hand out of the water clenches and unclenches compulsively as if it can do the other’s job. Before she can complete the task her body forces her to jerk her arm from the heat. The cold air is torturous relief against her flaming skin, but the grumbles from the assembly makes her realize the relief is temporary.

“I can do it.” She says through the pain and realizes from the way her voice wobbles that she is weeping.

Salty tracks freeze to her cheeks even as she thrusts her hand in once more before anyone can lobby complaint.

Her body is not accustomed to the pain, the heat, anymore this time, but it is not as surprising. That allows her to focus enough to grasp the stone in screaming fingers. She withdraws the instant she knows it is secure and pulls it out.

It is a staggering weight for such a small stone. It burns hotter than the water in the frigid air, and she cannot remember what she is to do now. Her mind is too confused with the flood of conflicted senses to direct itself. A firm shoves comes at her back, lurching her forward, and she will never know exactly from where it came though she will forever be grateful for it. The momentum keeps her going. Her feet move a quick path around the full circumference of the wide fire ring all the while doing her best to not notice the sensation of the stone cradled in her palm eating through the tender skin.

She keeps going, step after step, until just as she started she is stopped. Eerie Blonde grabs her shoulder and she drops the stone with a gasp the moment he touches her. It falls into the snow at her feet, sizzling to the ground in an instant.

Her gaze goes to her palm. Her fingers curl in towards it, unable to extend for the pain. The surface across it is mottled red and white with blisters welling up by the second. Her stomach turns. The skin of her arm is tinged a telltale pink. Even now removed from the heat she can still feel it burning. She can still feel the weight of the rock pressing through her skin.  It hurts. She does not know what to do to stop it from hurting.

 _Bjarg_ would know. She tells herself, but he is not there. She cradles her abused hand against her chest.

“She has passed the first step of the trial.” Large Leader proclaims as Eerie Blonde replaces her cloak around her shoulders and fastens it in place. He places her bouquet in her uninjured hand and for an instant their eyes meet. She sees what seems to be a flicker of approval in their odd gray depths.  

Sigfrid comes alongside her then and takes Anna over to Ketil and Alva. Without a word the women take handfuls of the clear powder on the ground and press it against Anna’s screaming flesh. She feels relief in the same way as one would regaining the feeling in a sleeping limb. Her skin tingles, burns, and pricks against the invasion of cold but she does not pull away. This pain is a kindness. It is concept she is learning to ingrain in every fiber of life in these woods.  

She is not sure how long she stands there watching Alva and Ketil’s gloved hands press handful after handful of snow over her scalded skin. She knows she is still crying. She can taste the salt on her lips. It is not tears for the pain of her hand, however. No, these silent tears slipping down stoic cheeks are from a pain much deeper than that.

She hears the council muttering to one another, sees their massive fur covered backs form a circle, in her periphery. She can feel the restless energy of the assembly. They are all waiting just as she is.

A bird sings as the first full shafts of light cut through the bare winter trees.

He comes then. The burning flesh of her palm is nothing compared to the fire that explodes in her chest at the sight of him enter the hollow from the same narrow path she had. He wears a thin plain shirt of rough linen similar to the shift she wears and drab pants. His hair, grown long in their months together, is knotted back in a leather thong. The days of scruff and stubble she has grown accustom to him wearing are shaved clean. At both sides he is accompanied by two men not of his height but sturdy and sour looking. His hands are bound in the same way hers had been.

Their eyes meet in an instant across the clearing and she wants to run to him. Ketil grabs her arm and restrain her. She is about to complain but the expression on his face makes her hold her tongue.

She has no power here. Her protest will only make it worse. She stills.

The council approaches him and he gives them his attention. The men who brought _Bjarg_ to the hollow unbind him.

“The _hólmganga_ has called you and you have come with honor.” Large Leader says to _Bjarg_ as he rubs his wrists. Even at this distance she can see thick, scarlet bands where the ropes had been. “Where is the challenger?”

“I am here.” Gunnar comes forward. He wears thick leather across his chest and arms. A wooden shield is already strapped to his arm. A short sword glints in his opposite hand. “My sword and I will fight honorably.”

“Gunnar has chosen the sword. What weapon do ya chose?” Large Leader acknowledges Gunnar and turns back to where _Bjarg_ stands stoic.

“I will take no weapon.” _Bjarg_ says and beside her Alva gasps and presses the snow against her abused flesh a bit too hard. Anna hisses but it is covered by the murmur rushing through the assembly.

Even Large Leader is shocked beyond speech for a moment. Anna’s eyes flash to Gunnar’s weapon, his armor, and she wants to scream. She wants to throw herself in between Large Leader and _Bjarg_ and plead that sense will return to them all. She must have strained in that direction for Ketil’s thick hand holds her shoulder like a talon.

“A shield then.” Large Leader suggests, but _Bjarg_ shakes his head

“I have done no wrong. The gods will favor me.”

Somewhere in the group there is a caustic laugh and Anna knows it is Nadir. The others continue their dark chatter. It blurs in her mind like the sound of rushing water.

“Then so be it.” Large Leader’s voice is gruffer than ever.

He turns and lumbers to something Anna had not had time to puzzle over when she had entered the hollow. Near the altar the hide of a bull is stretched flat on the ground. Four corners are demarcated by hazel stakes with coarse yarn attached and run between to form a square perimeter. Each side is the length of a man. Large Leader steps inside and gestures for the combatants to join him. They come. Once all three at inside Large Leader lifts his hands above his head and incants something in a language unknown to Anna.

Then he steps out and it begins.

Gunnar is a small man by any standard, but next to _Bjarg_ he looks especially so. He bounces on his toes, shield up high, sword raised. _Bjarg_ stands with his weight loaded into his back leg, hands in loose fists up by his shoulders, and looks much like a lynx waiting to pounce.

The assembly has moved from their place around the fire to the hólmganga ring but Anna remains back. She is afraid if she is any closer she will make thing worse by distracting _Bjarg_ , or screaming, or charging into the ring and jumping on Gunnar’s back.

Just this once she does not want to be the reason things get worse.

Gunnar strikes first.

The dark man charges forward, sword swinging, but _Bjarg_ counters. He dodges shield side with surprising speed. Using his momentum, _Bjarg_ turns as he evades Gunnar’s sword and swings his joined fists around to land a staggering blow to the center of Gunnar’s back. Gunnar stumbles, nearly stepping outside the boundaries, but catches himself. He turns and if he had been angry before now he was furious.

The small man takes another offensive swipe at _Bjarg_ , and another. Each thrust and lunge is met with artful evasion. Gunnar’s temper makes him an inefficient opponent and _Bjarg_ uses it to his advantage. On another pass _Bjarg_ uses his full strength to land his elbow into the space where Gunnar’s neck met his back. There is a sharp crack at the contact and Gunnar falls to his hands and knees. Without pause _Bjarg_ is turned around and at Gunnar’s side, his booted foot crushing Gunnar’s sword hand.

Did he kill him now? Anna does not know the full rules of the _hólmganga_. She had learned of its existence, of how it is forbidden by the crown centuries ago, but never its inner workings. She struggles to breathe. The pain in her hand completely forgotten in this moment.

“Let us end this now with no more blows.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice carries across the snow.

She sees Gunnar struggle to free his sword from under _Bjarg_ ’s boot. She sees him try to use his other arm to strike out, but the awkward angle and the weight of the shield made it impossible to reach _Bjarg_. The dark man writhes and struggles for a moment to find a way to strike against his opponent with his limbs, but fails. It is in that instant that he lunges towards _Bjarg_ ’s leg with his mouth and clamps into the thick of his calf.

 _Bjarg_ ’s response is instant and effective. One large fist comes down on Gunnar’s temple with a sickening thud and then it is over. Gunnar instantly crumples into the snow and Anna does not know if he is unconscious or dead. She does not know for which she hopes.

 _Bjarg_ hops back, not putting weight on the bitten leg, and then bends to recover Gunnar’s sword. He turns then to Large Leader and the rest of the council and presents the weapon to them.

“I claim this sword as my _weregild_.” He says but everyone is too shocked to speak.

The fight had lasted less than a minute. Anna may not have known much about _hólmgangas_ but she can tell this is unprecedented.

Large Leader clears his throat. “The gods have favored you. Let it be so.”

 _Bjarg_ turns to her then. Even several yards away she can see the intensity in those eyes, the singularity of his purpose. He is here for her. He had not left her alone. Her knees threaten to buckle.

He takes the handle of his newly acquired sword and points the tip of the blade in her direction. His gaze never wavers.

“And I claim _Logi_ as my wife.”


	12. Chapter 12

She knew this was coming. She had been told in no uncertain terms what the result of successful trials would be. Now that time has arrived.

She does not feel her feet move, does not feel Alva and Ketil lead her to the stone altar where _Bjarg_ already waits. She does not hear the words that Large Leader speaks over them. She does not witness the winding spiral the group forms from the altar all around her like a snake coiling in around itself. She does not feel the burning of her flesh. Her entire world is reduced only to his gaze.

His eyes are solemn and deep. They speak to her, but she cannot understand what they say. She wishes she could. It seems so unfair that he can read her every thought but she is here without the slightest idea what lies in his mind.

Perhaps she should be glad of his enigmatic mind for what if his thoughts are unkind? He cannot be pleased with this arrangement. Not when she has proven time and again to be reckless with both her and his life.

She feels the warmth of flame to her right. Eerie Blonde has brought fire from the pit to the altar and recreated it in miniature. For a moment her hand throbs at the reminder of heat but then she is aware of a command. The flowers - they want her flowers. Mutely she throws them onto the flames. They crackle and snap, curling in on themselves in brilliant reds and oranges.

 _A good omen_. She remembers what Ketil had told her before. _A blessing from the gods_. But what if she does not believe in these gods? Will they bless her still? She wonders what would have happened if the bouquet had not decided to burn. Would this have been stopped?

Large Leader speaks again. He keeps speaking. It is the same dialect he had spoken in the _hólmganga_ field. It is rudimentary, basic, a language long lost to time but for in this place. She catches bits. The roots and conjugations are familiar enough, but the specifics are lost. Two words which are inescapably present are _husband_ and _wife._

Husband.

Wife.

Just as they have been for months.

Nothing as they have been for months.

There is a flash out of the corner of her eye. Large Leader grabs her good hand in his and the flash becomes pain.

The cut is fast and deep across the meat of her palm. She gasps at the bright, unexpected sting and rips her eyes down to the welling line. She feels lightheaded at the sight, at the pain, and she sways. She had not expected - but then another hand is pressed atop hers. It is _Bjarg’s._ He squeezes her hand tightly in his demanding her eyes without words. She brings her gaze back to his as the elder wraps a thick strip of white linen around their hands and secures it with a knot.

The world still spins, but his gaze holds her steady. His expression holds the weights of a thousand stones and she cannot breathe under the intensity of it. She cannot breathe, but she does not fall. She is strong and so she stands with him as their blood pools together in their palms.

Large Leader turns to _Bjarg_ and puts to him a series of charges, but _Bjarg_ keeps his eyes on her. He does not once look away from her. When Large Leader finishes _Bjarg_ says: “I bind my heart to thine until the day I die.”

There is a melting quality in his voice. Something thick and entrancing. She watches his mouth shape the words, looking perhaps for a clue to his true disposition. She is fruitless.

Large Leader gives her the same charges. She picks out familiar word in attempts to stop considering _Bjarg’s_ thoughts. _Obey, cherish, respect, love_ … she has never attended a wedding, or binding, though she has read of them. These words are not surprising in context of this commitment. She supposes it is just the commitment itself that is surprising.

He squeezes her hand.

She startles.

They are waiting for her. She must speak.

“Yes. Yes I - I will.” She stumbles, uncertain. Her voice cracks.

“I bind my heart to thine until the day I die.” Large Leader prompts.

She watches every nuance of _Bjarg’s_ face as she repeats the words. Can he tell her mind is already searching for a way out? Does he care? Is his mind looking for a similar loophole?

Does she want him to?

Large Leader encants something over their joined hands with dried cluster of yarrow blossoms. He moves the bunch from their hands to _Bjarg’s_ heart, back to their hands, to her heart before reaching across them to the altar and burning the flowers along with the charred bundle she had already offered to the flame.

The moment the flowers too light a deafening whoops erupted from the gathering. She cries out in surprise, but _Bjarg_ holds steady. This is part of it, she realizes, as Large Leader unwinds their hands. No - not part of it - the end of it. She is married.

She thinks she should feel different now than the moment before she was married, but she does not. She feels the same. Her body shakes. She should not feel the same. She is not the same and yet she is. Nothing and everything is different.

She looks up to him, but he is not looking at her face. He is looking down to where his hand still clasped hers with warm steady fingers. His hand is so large it completely envelopes her smaller one.

She does not want him to release her.

She wants to run as far and as fast as she can.

How can both be true?

Large Leader pulls _Bjarg’s_ hand from hers and wraps it firm with a strip of linen before he does the same for her. The blood has stopped flowing, but she appreciate it nonetheless.

There are no more words in languages she struggles to understand. There are no more gestures. She thinks of a kiss with simultaneous anticipation and dread but it is clear that is not part of the tradition here.

She feels his eyes on her. She meets them and for an instant, just one, she thinks she sees his entire world. Then he blinks, and it is gone so quickly she thinks she must have been imagining it. She had seen what she wanted to see - what she did not want to see - oh her head hurts.

Someone grabs her arm and pulls her away from him. It is Alva. The broad girl takes her to join the rest of the women. She looks back to see _Bjarg_ similarly taken by Nadir and led to the men. Then the procession out of the hollow begins. The men lead but the women are close behind. Alva holds Anna’s arm tight as they leave the hollow. Whatever rules applied for entering the place seemed to hold upon exiting it as well.

It is a strangely quiet, somber procession. There is no fanfare, no rejoicing, and she wants to ask Alva if this is what all bindings are like. She wants to know if they all feel as much like a death march as this cold bleak day, but she stays quiet. She already knows the answer.

They tramp through the woods and out into the meadow that had crossed earlier. Now in the full morning light the frost and snow is blinding. She keeps her eyes low and follows the feet in front of her, around her. They walk near a mile of meadow and woods before they break through a copse of trees to find a sizeable longhouse. It looks as though five of _Bjarg’s_ cabins were lined up with a second stacked atop the entire length. Logs jut out in crossed angles out of the sod roof. Ornate wood panels seal the front. She has not seen a structure this size or grandeur since the palace. It stops her in her tracks.

Alva stops beside her, hand on her hip. “What is it now, strange one?”

“What is this place?”

Alva takes her arm again and propels her towards the door. “The chieftain’s longhouse, of course. Ya must know that.”

She had not known, but she thinks it is best to keep that to herself. She could have marveled at the size of it for quite some time, not knowing that it was possible for such a grand structure to exist in this simple place, but something else catches her attention. All the men have entered the cabin already. All except _him_. He waits by the entrance watching her. The attention makes her face flush.

“You wait here for him.” Alva says ten feet from the door, releasing her arm.  She has a humorous glint in her eye as if she loves nothing more than Anna’s ignorance at their customs.

Anna stops and the rest of the women file past her and into the light and warmth of the longhouse. Through it all she sees him there, a head taller or more than them all, with a sort of braced expression as though he expects her to run. It is an expression she has taught him and it makes her heart race like a rabbit.

The instant the last skirt has crossed from winter to warmth he strides to her. He moves like a hurricane. Something wild rages behind the his skin, his eyes, and the power of it causes her to step back, to brace herself. Her hands clench without a thought and her body screams in instant protest. She looks at her hands reflexively to check for new damage and he is upon her.  

A pair of strong arms loop behind her knees and shoulders and lift her off the ground in one smooth motion. She yelps as she comes to rest across his wide chest. She feels foolish at her cry. What she had expected other than this she does not know. Nothing has been as she expected it would be upon her departure from the palace. Has she just stopped expecting things all together?

He carries her easily. Her weight causes him no strain. She remembers the times he carried her this way: that first day in the woods, that first time she ran, and now the first day they are married in more than just farce. She cannot help but look up at him as he steps over the threshold with her in his arms. He is already looking at her. Their faces are close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek. She swallows hard.  

“Easy.” He whispers. It is the first he has spoken to her since they were parted the day before and the sound of his voice is a balm. She wants to chase that word, to drag out more, but she knows now is not the time.

They were several steps into the large room before _Bjarg_ sets her down on her feet. She wants to grab hold of him then and demand to stay in the shelter of his arms. She wants to ignore the pain in both of her hands, cling to him, and refuse to let go. She has gotten them in enough trouble with her actions, however, and so she does her best to stay still.

The inside of the longhouse is more impressive than the outside. Thick beams rib the walls, the ceiling, and are covered with hanging pelts of all sizes. Where there are no pelts along the wall there are shelves and shelves of earthenware and utensils of all sorts. She sees bags of flour, sugar, and salt along with baskets of potatoes and other roots in greater bounty than she has seen anywhere but the palace. A table and benches hewn from the corpse of a fallen oak spans nearly the entire length of the grand room. At the center of the room roars a large fire in a sunken pit. A massive kettle is suspended over it.

The women have already gathered around and are busying themselves with preparations of some sort. Alva and Ketil are among them. The low hum of their gossip can be heard above the crackling fire. The men have found their tankards, filled them with ale, and sit in groups at the large table. Nadir sits on the far side, Eerie Blonde sits alongside him, but neither speak. Anna looks away but she can feel both of their eyes bore holes in her back.

“Come then.” Large Leader says, the other five elders, including Sigfrid, beside him. “Let us finish it.”  

He leads them to the far end of the longhouse. Anna is too aware that everyone is watching them, that _Bjarg_ is just inches away, and that wherever this walk is leading she is fairly certain of its outcome. Her face is on fire. Large Leader brings them to a door hidden behind the hide of a bear. He unlatches it and presses inside. They all follow.  

The room is small, dimly lit, and smoky. The furnishing includes a small table with food and drink upon it partnered with two wooden chairs. On the opposite side is a substantial pile of pelts covered with wool sheets: the marriage bed. Her face heats even further at the sight, her heart pounds. She thinks someone must be speaking, but she cannot understand. She hears the shuffling of feet, the click of the latch, and now they are alone.

She had been so used to be them being alone. For months that is all it had been but now she is overwhelmed by it. It feels like years have passed between them since then, like it is that first day back in his cabin all over again.

She looks at the makeshift bed and her mind is flooded with unpleasantness. Her body shakes so hard at the idea of what is required of her that she can hardly support herself as she goes to the chair furthest from the bed and sinks down in it to keep from falling.

She is not ready.

She thinks she may never be ready.

He joins her at the table. She sees him in her periphery, too embarrassed to watch him directly. Perhaps they should have gone straight to the bed and finished the work they had begun. Then perhaps her heart would stop pounding, her mind stop racing.

She looks at her lap and tries to breathe. He clears his throat into the silence. They are both uneasy in these unfamiliar circumstances. 

She thinks she can hear his heart from across the table and that it matches the frantic staccato of her own. 

Finally:

“They were fair to you - Sigfrid and his fat wife?” He speaks to her the way she has heard him speak to Sven when he is spooked. The dulcet notes of his voice reach out to smooth her frayed edges and she feels herself lean into it. “They did not abuse you in any way?”

Her arms still ache from carrying buckets of mash and water, but she knows that is nothing to report. Hardwork is no abuse in this world. “No. They were fair.”

Something crashes loud outside in the main room and is followed by a whoop of laughter. She tries to hide her startled jump.

“They fed you?”

They had, but she had hardly eaten. “I was not hungry.”

She sees him nod out of corner of her eye as if he understands, sympathizes, and she wants to ask him where he had been kept. Had they allowed him to go home and unload the sleigh? Had they been fair to him? Had he eaten? The words die on her tongue as she has grown all too used to not asking questions. Questions never fail to lead to conversations she has no interest in having, and that bed in the corner looms over both of them.

“Are you hungry now?”

He gestures to the food on the table and she looks. The bread looks thick and hearty. The meat is fresh game. There is even a small bowl of whipped butter by a pitcher she is sure is full of the honeyed mead Ketil had been so concerned with procuring. Her stomach screams at the sight of it and she realizes just how little she has eaten in the last several days.

“I am.” She can hear the surprise in her own voice at the confession.

“Then eat. This is intended for us.”

He reaches for the dark bread and breaks off a chunk before swiping it in the butter. She is equally eager and tries to grab at the hearty fare with only her cut hand, but finds it difficult. She struggles to rip off a piece as he did. The pain and fatigue mount against her efforts.

He had been turning his attention to breaking off his share of the meat but stops at her struggles. This makes it worse. She cannot work with his eyes on her like this.

“What is this that causes you favor that hand?”

She hears the curiosity in his tone but she thinks it is a terrible joke. She looks up to chastise him with her eyes but only finds genuine puzzlement upon his features. It is only then that she realizes he had not seen her trial. All though she had been acutely aware of his absence during the process something inside her had assumed he knew all that had happened. Somehow, she thinks, the practice had to have been familiar to him, that he would have known exactly to what she had been subjected. In the lack of her response, however, she sees the dawn of realization creep onto his face.

“What did they have you do?” That straining wild thing is back and scratches beneath his voice.

She shrinks from telling him, of unleashing the wild thing completely. “I was able to do it.”

“What was it?”

“All will be right again soon.”

“ _Logi_.” A warning.

“I can be just as strong and as brave as you can be.” Her voice shakes.

“This has naught to do with bravery!” He pushes back from the table and pops out of his chair with such force his seat falls to the dirt and straw of the floor. “Did they harm you?”

The violence of his motion frightens her. She shrinks back in her seat as he leans over the table. The candlelight throws long shadows down his cheeks. Tendons strain along the line of his neck. The practiced distance they use with each other is gone. The wild thing has eaten it and looks like it is ready to devour her as well. 

She speaks around the heart in her throat. “I did what I had to in order to secure my safety.”

“It is my place to do that!”

“But you were not there!”

It comes out on a burst of fear. She does not mean the words to hurt him, but he reels back the same as if she slapped him. He retreats a few steps from the table. His wounded expression tears at her. Her eyes burn.

“You were not there. I thought you had left me to find my own way. I could not fault you for this so I did what was required of me.” She will not cry though the pricking at the backs of her eyes continue. She holds her chin high. She can be as big and brave as he can be.

“And what was that, _min navnløse_? What was required of you?” The wild thing retreats for the moment. His usual control slips back in fractions.

She does not cry. She is strong. She is learning to be as hard as these mountains she lives in. “They required I carry a stone.”

She can tell from his expression that he knows exactly what she left out from her task. He swallows thickly.

“And did you carry it?”

“I did.”

She had. Despite the pain there is a pride in that that dries her eyes.

He stands still for a long moment simply watching her. She watches back, insides trembling, willing herself to not look away. Then slowly - oh so slowly - he comes around to where she sits. He turns her chair from the table so that she faces him as easily as if she were not in it and kneels before her. The mass of him only seems larger from his lowered position, the humble power of a man who knows his own strength growing him in her mind till there is room for nothing else. Her breath catches on the idea.

“Give me your hands.” He says and extends his own.

His left hand is bandaged as her own is but he moves it without any discomfort that she can see. She envies him. He seems able to block pain at the source, to carry on despite earthly discomfort, and she wants that. She wants his strength. She craves it.

She extends her left hand, palm up, hoping to absorb some of his strength. He circles her wrist with his fingers, touch as hot as the stone she had clutched earlier, and draws it all the way to her knee. He rests it there and goes to the knot securing the bandage. His fingers are long and blunt. She takes in the shape and form of them as he loosens the tie. He is more careful than a man as rough and alone as he should know how to be. When the bandage finally lays open he surveys the damage with practiced efficiency.

The cut along her palm is a sickened red, crusted brown with a halo of jagged pink, and just as sore as it looked. Those fingers, too long - impossibly long, graze the edges and she bites her lip. She will not show pain when his own must be just as great.

“The blade was unclean.” His tone speaks curses. The roughness of it tempts her to withdraw, but it does not show in his touch. Her pulse pounds furiously in her chest. “The other then.” He nods to her burnt hand, unbandaged and tucked firmly to her stomach.

“There is no need.” She does not want to show him. She does not want him to see this weakness. She is, after all, already so weak in comparison to him.

“There is. If you leave it untreated and it turns foul by the time they inspect it in a week then the rest of you will burn.”

He means it. She knows the truth of it. She has witnessed it. They will take her to that dreaded hollow and Eerie Blonde with stone dead eyes would be all too happy to add her to his fire. She shudders and meets his bright whiskey eyes and offers her burned flesh to his inspection.

The color of it had intensified in the past hour. The red is deeper, the purple more offensive, the white blisters smooth and shiny as pebbles in a stream - all radiating out from the deep scorch in the center of her palm. He takes the offered hand with unmatched tenderness. He cradles her hand in both of his, as gentle as an egg, and she is struck by the difference in their size. A single one of his hands was near twice one of hers.

“Oh _min lille venn_ , my little one, I should have stopped this.”

Torment hangs on the edges of his words. He is close enough that she can feel him trembling like a leaf in a great wind, but cannot understand why.

She begins to withdraw. The shame she feels at his distress motivates her to remove herself as much as she can from him, but his hands follow hers. He exerts no pressure, but the edges of his hands catch on hers and stills her efforts only to just as abruptly release her and stand once more. He steps back.

“You fear me.” She wants to rise after him, but the intensity of his gaze nails her to her seat. “I failed you. I broke my promise to stay you from harm and now you shrink from my touch.”

“No!” She protests from her place. “It is I who failed you.”

His looks tells her he does not believe her.

“If I had only stayed, had only done what you asked just once, this entire unpleasantness could have been avoided.” The muscles in her legs strain to stand but she is uncertain she can support herself if she does. “You would not be saddled with me as an unwanted wife among peers you despise. You would have no unwanted blood on your hands. You could be free as all souls long to be free.”

She says these things to be of help, to ease his mind, but a different spark lights his eyes at her words. He is still but each fiber of him resonates control over an energy she cannot name or even hope to.

Then, lips hardly moving, he spoke: “Have I ever made you feel unwanted?”

She wants to jump up and shout _‘No_!’, but something stays her in her seat, stills the words in her throat. She knows what it is to be unwanted. Her own sister had taught her that. But had he?

If he only knew about Elsa then he would understand that anything would be an improvement beyond that. He speaks to her. He sees her. But did he want her? She recognizes that the acknowledgement of presence and the desires of presence are two wildly different things.

If he had not saved her that first day surely he would not felt the need to keep her close. If they had passed in the wood he would have never entertained the idea of living with her the way they had been. He had not wanted her. He had been cursed with her. 

She looks at her battered palms. “Never by your intent, I am certain.”

“But you have felt it nonetheless.” He is leaning and she feels the weight.

They are quiet enough that they can hear the gathering in the next room. She wonders how many remained. There is no reason to celebrate, no real friends, but there are measures which must be taken to ensure this binding is sealed. She reaches with her bandaged hand and pours herself a glass of mead. She swallows the contents quickly and pours herself a second.

She says nothing. How could she? How could she tell him that he is married to a blight? Her hands shake.

He sighs into her silence. He cannot press anymore than she can.

“I cannot tend your wounds here.” He mercifully changes the subject. “I have things at home that will aid in the healing but they will want proof of our union.” He nods towards the pile of pelts where the sheet lays untouched.

Her chest clenches. She knew enough of the world now to know what he is implying but she cannot bring herself to move. There is dirt under her skin left behind from the others and she will never be clean for any man. She loathes to spread her filth, but she supposes she must.

Before she can bring herself to stand on shaking legs, he steps to the makeshift bed and pulls the bandage off his hand. His fingers go to the scab and tears. She jerks at the unexpected violence, at the way he does not flinch, at the red welling of blood on his palm. He allows the drops to pool a bit in the hollow of his hand before he extends his arm and turns it.

The blood drips and stains the ivory fabric in an instant. She knows just how blood stains cloth. Her stomach turns and she sucks a shuddering breath.

He withdraws his hand and meets her eyes.

She cannot decipher his thoughts the way he can hers. She wishes she could.

“In older days they would watch the act to make sure it was completed. Now, like the wolves they are, all they want is blood and they shall have it, but they shall have it on our terms.” He wraps the bandage back around his hand. “We will return home in the hour, but first we eat.”

He rights his fallen chair and rejoins her at the table. He tears her a piece of bread and offers it to her without a smile. She takes it, careful to keep their fingers from brushing. He takes his own piece that he had discarded earlier and leans back in his seat.  

“After all,” he almost seems to say to himself. “It is not everyday I am bound to a woman about whom I know nothing at all. I may as well eat my fill.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> art by the amazing Sara: http://bearstoff.tumblr.com/

They eat in silence. He breaks off pieces of bread and meat for her as they go. She takes them with gratitude and suppresses a chill whenever their fingers brush in the exchange.

She hardly tastes the food. Her nerves still jangle from - well - everything. Of all the possibilities she had considered for her life out of the palace she never once imagined herself forcibly wed to a man who was as much a stranger to her as she was to him. She never imagined her wedding gown would be coarse linen or that the greatest delicacy of her wedding feast would be butter and roasted rabbit. The idea of all of it is laughable and if she had not been so bone-tired she may have done just that.

He is mercifully quiet while they eat but she can hear the whir of his mind shifting through thoughts and plans and ideas the same as she. It is clear that this is not what either of them expected but she cannot help but wonder just if this could ever be something he may want.

After all she is uncertain how she feels about the situation so how could she expect anything else from him? 

She thinks back to the books, the novels, she had read in the lonely hours at the palace. She remembers that brides are supposed to be blissful. Her books had told her so, but she is not blissful. She is confused and sore and exhausted - but not unsafe she realizes. No, with him so near she feels quite secure.

These thoughts trip and tumble through her mind in an endless loop that she has the feeling she will never quite work out. 

They are nearly done with their food when he leans back in his chair and looks at her. She looks back, pulse mounting.

“I need the flowers from your hair.” He says at length. “You have no proper bridal crown, so they will be expecting the flowers as a symbol of your maidenhood.”

It should not be shocking. At this point nothing should shock her, and yet here she is speechless at the idea presented her. His blood alone will not be enough for them. They need more and though the matter of parting with dead flowers and herbs is perhaps only a trifle it seems an insurmountable task. Exhaustion and nerves work against her.

She just wants to go home, but she is not entirely sure where that is anymore.

Tears sting her eyes. “Yes. Of course.”

He is slow to move this time. The rapid fire velocity he had exhibited moments before is lost in penitent steps. He comes behind her chair. She stays perfectly still. Her breath sticks in her throat as he pulls at the first spring of rosemary. It snags in the woven strands of her hair and she yelps. He relents.

“Have I harmed you?” His voice is soft, concern stitched into each syllable.

She shakes her head. “No.”

She thinks to turn to look at him to reassure him of her upstanding condition, but she does not trust herself to do so. What if that wild thing is looking back at her? What if it is not? She cannot risk it. She keeps her face straight ahead as she gives a suggestion she cannot begin to contemplate.

“I think it may be necessary to unbind my hair. The plants were woven in.”

A hollow space fills the room. 

She can hears him breathing, heavy and deep, as if to calm himself. She follow suit. The idea of him touching her, any of her, in this dark and private room sends her heart racing. She breathes through the terror and attempts to think of anything other than the wild thing inside of him that she can feel so close. She squeezes her eyes shut and waits.

She feels him hook a braid and pull it over her shoulder with burning precision. Once it is draped across her back he begins to work at the twine fastening. His work progresses in imperceptible intervals. Meticulously he unwinds her hair, removing the dried sprigs one at a time, before reaching past her to drop them on the table in front of her.

His hands look too big for the task as they pass through her field of vision to deposit fragile, dead blossoms. They are weathered, chapped, and yet piece after piece finds itself growing the pile in front of her.

A memory flickers.

She is young, so young, and Elsa is there. They are laughing. Elsa pulls Anna’s pigtails to try to make them grow and then Anna is cold, so cold, and nobody is laughing anymore. Elsa’s hands are tinged blue so she must be cold as well, but only Elsa is rushed away. Anna asks after her sister but receives blankets instead of answers, hot chocolate instead of reasons.

Then it is gone.

Anna struggles to find more, but she cannot. It is gone. The place in her mind where it should be is cold and gray.

Her mental search is interrupted as he moves to the second braid with precision that he treated the first. She had hardly realized he had reached the end of the first before he pulled the second over her shoulder for similar treatment. 

The removal of Ketil’s tight handiwork causes her scalp to tingle and burn. She breathes into the sensation, leaning into it as she fights her own mind for control. If she has learned anything in the months out of the castle she has learned that even a modicum of self control is worth as much as a beating heart in this world. So she breathes and focuses on the process until the last twig is pulled from her hair.

She is so sure that it is over that she thinks to turn and look at him, to break the intimate, silent spell that has woven its way through the room, but he is not finished. Thick fingers find her scalp and she feels the unexpected pull of ten callus patched digits rake the length of her hair. Tangles pull apart at the gentle tension. Her neck goes rigid against the firm, calming pull until it breaks free at the ends. She exhales, thinking it is over, but his fingers find her tingling scalp once more and pulls.

It is torture.

The inexorable pull and pressure of his touch makes her want to cry out, to run and hide, but she knows there is no escape. She is safe with him. He will not hurt her, and yet her body rejects and craves the sensation all at once. She is unaccustomed to such tenderness, to the idea that touch is more than a bargaining chip or a weapon.  

Her eyes close. Her body flashes hot and cold. She is compelled to speak, but knows not what to say.

She needs him to stop. 

She needs him to never stop.

The increasing riot rhythm of her heart will kill her if he continues. The idea of his hands abandoning her now will just as surely cause the beat of her heart to cease.

He gives no choice as he continues. His hands move through thick waves patiently, repeatedly, unknotting each tangle he finds. He picks out the stray bits of leaves and debris left behind until her hair is manageable once more. She thinks he will leave it at that, her hair spilling down her back as she is unable to bind it herself, but she is mistaken.

He takes her hair once more time, this time gathering the entire mass of it in his capable hands, and splits it into three parts. Deftly he weaves a braid into the length. She can feel the draw and pull of the sections in his fingers in a way that makes it difficult to think. She had seen him braid cord to make rope but had never considered the idea that he could similarly braid hair - especially her own hair. By the time he fastens the end with a remnant of twine she is weak from lack of breath.

“There now.” He says from behind her. “All fixed and proper.” His voice is lower than normal, as sweet and jagged as the molasses candy she would demand the palace chefs to make for her.

She does not answer, does not move, as he reaches over her sweep the dried plants into his palm. Her mind struggles to understand what has passed between them, if anything. 

He walks to the mat on the wall and collects the stained sheets as well before going to the door. She hears the door open, followed by the low hum of conversation, but she keeps her gaze on her hands. She cannot meet his face yet, not when her heart threatens to thunder through her chest.

The door opens and she glances in that direction to see _Bjarg_ return with new items at hand. Instead of sheets and flowers, he holds two thick bundles of cloth. The door closes behind him as he comes to the table. With his good hand he moves the remnants of the meal to one side of the small table and sets the bundles in the cleared space.

It is their clothes from the day before, she realizes then. The garments she had shed at Sigfrid and Ketil’s home were returned to her in full. She is glad to have them back if only for an instant before she realizes that it means that she is expected to change into the now and return what she is wearing.

She looks at her hands. Is there any way she can don these clothes without assistance? 

He has helped her with her bodice before when she had first come into his keeping as helpless a newborn lamb, but never to this extent. She thinks to ask for Alva. The young woman has been such a boon in this trying time, but she cannot ask her. In this world she is a married woman now, not a blushing maiden, and there is no precedent for modesty between a man and his wife.

She thinks of him seeing her in a greater state of undress and blushes redder than her hair.

She tries to remember that first week they had together when he had aided her in removing her palace finery. The hooks and fasteners had been too much for her to surmount amidst her aching bones and the fact that she had never once been required to dress or undress herself without assistance. Even then, however, he had left her to undo the laces at the back of her corset and run thin fingers over her chemise to inspect groaning ribs but _now_ ….

 _Bjarg’s_ outer layers and the weapons he always carried were returned as well. He has already slipped on his thick knit sweater, patched on the elbows, and fur lined vest. His belt and all of its utilities have been returned to his waist. His hair has slipped the leather thong that held it back back from his face and now glints gold by his shoulders in the lamplight. She can see it flash out of the corner of her eye and she wonders what it would be like to run her fingers through it the way he had through hers.

The thought alone paralyzes her completely.

He seems to sense this, to read her mind as he always does, and hesitates at the edge of the table. He is close enough to touch. It would not take effort, but they stay separate. Breathing.

“What do you need from me?” She had expected his calming voice, the voice that comes when her nerves are frayed, but instead it is the wild thing scratching behind every word.

The sound of it catches her off guard.

“I - I must dress.” She does not mention the undressing that must occur directly before even though the coarse, oversized unmentionable she wears suddenly feel too tight.

He nods.

She swallows.

Neither move.

She wonders at the energy around them, thick and chewable. The air hums with it, or at least she thinks it does. She may be imagining things. The cumulative burden of exhaustion and stress of this waking nightmare may have finally reached the point where she can no longer bear it. This is a hallucination. It must be, she thinks, but then he speaks again.

“Anything you need.” The strain in each syllable is something she has never heard from him before and she knows this is real. He is real. “Anything at all. Anything.”

There is the barest quaver in his final word and she knows he feels the weight in the air the same way she does. Sweat breaks out along her spine. This is difficult for him. This realization, of the awareness of his own kind of frailty, compels her to seek out her own strength.

She looks at her hands, worn and ragged, and knows they are capable of enduring terrible things. She is capable. She endures.

“I -” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. “I need you to turn around.”

She does not look to see if he is surprised at her request. Instead she watches his feet pivot in the straw without question. _Anything_ \- he had said. _Anything_ \- he does. He stands so still, not shuffling or shifting in place, that all she can hear is the bustle of the main hall

She blushes at the idea of what what comes now. Without standing she brings her left hand up to the front laces of her borrowed stays. Her fingers fumble with the knots. The slash across her palm stings and throbs with each motion. She works slowly to ease the sharp discomfort and attempts to keep her breathing as steady as possible so as not to alarm _Bjarg_. She proceeds to pull a finger through each cross until the stays loosen.

Something shifts between her breasts and she is reminded of the strange, small bag Ketil had given her. She removes it from its hiding places and sets it on the table before finishing the undoing of the laces. The chemise is so large that without the support of the tight bodice the wide neck falls off her shoulders and drops around her waist.

The room is warm enough but she feels gooseflesh raise over every inch of her skin when she rises from her seat and the shift falls away from her completely. She is bare now but for her boots, exposed, and he is there with her. That funny tightness that had pulled in her chest back in the cave while she listened to him bathe returns. She is aware of each hair, every freckle, across her skin.

She wonders what would happen if she were to reach for him with damaged hands. Would the wild thing inside of him eat her alive? Would he be gentle? Would he refuse to turn? She shivers.

It is nonsense to think these things.

She can not reach for him not matter how her body thrums at the idea of it. She must dress. They must leave this strange home. There is no place for them here in this darkness. There is no place for them anywhere.

She reaches for her chemise and tugs it over her head easily enough before she grasps her corset. The laces up the back are still loose from last night. That added to the fact that her body has shrunk in this new, hard world makes it so she can slip it down over her head much the same as her chemise. She puts her arms through the appropriate holes and begins the difficult work.

It hurts.

She knew it would, but the reality is always different from the imagination. Her arms bend at strange angles causing a deep ache to build in the fronts of her shoulders. She runs unburned fingertips along the crosses to try to interpret where to begin. The sets of double laces tangle. Her burned hand tries to aid its mate but she can barely bend her fingers without searing pain.

In the depth of her concentration she can almost ignore the mountain of a man standing within reach. Almost. He is snapped to the forefront of her mind when a lace digs into a tender palm and she sucks in a hard breath. He shifts then for the first time, muscles tense.

“I am well.” She blurts as she struggles to find a better grip but fails.

She can do this. She reaches with behind herself with both hands, determined, and takes the laces again.

The pain is bright and hard. She cannot stop the sob that wrenches from her throat. He shifts again, his own fists curling, but he does not turn even though she knows it takes every ounce of self control not to do so.

“Let me help.” His body is drawn in hard, tight lines. “Let me, please.”

The idea is tempting as it is becoming clear that she is incapable of managing this on her own in her current state, but she cannot even begin the fathom the consequences of what may happen if she allows this. She is not prepared for what she may want him to do.

“Not yet.” She says. “Just a moment longer.”

She bends her arms back once more to tug on laces, but the task that had been difficult with two capable hands is now impossible. Her eyes smart with tears as she grips and pulls. The clamshell come together bit by bit. A hot tear streaks her cheek. She sniffs, unable to wipe away the evidence, and his shoulders tense.

“ _Logi_ ,” his voice is hoarse. “Please. Please do not ask me to bear your pain and do nothing.”

His need to help her radiates off of him in waves. She can see it in the trembling tension of his body. For all she needs to prove herself, all the strength and uncertainty she feels in her blood, she realizes the sacrifice of her pride is the price he must pay for his comfort and what a small price it is compared to all he has given her.

“I cannot draw my laces.” She attempts to keep her voice steady in her surrender. “Will you help?”

There had been no hesitation when she had asked him to turn away, but there is now. She sees the shuddering rise and fall of a breath rock through his broad shoulders. When he does turn it is slow, achingly so, but he does not lower his gaze. No. His head remains high and seeks her face. This time she meets his eyes and she feels a hot tide sweep her entire body.

He has seen her this way before. She has been paraded around this entire day in nothing more than she wears now, but somehow now she feels bare.

He steps towards her and a shiver explodes through her entire frame. He stops.

“Easy.” His voice is rough and low.

He is not a threat but somehow this would be easier if he was. She knows what to do then. She has been taught. She can fight, but she is not at war with him. She is at war with herself.

She jerks her head and what she hopes registers as ascent. He takes another step, I’m staying with her, and she locks her body against her trembling epicenter.

His bandaged hand comes up to her shoulder. She counts a victory when she does not lurch back. She has never realized what an armor something as flimsy as clothing can be between two people. Now his touch burns through thin fabric until she shakes.

He moves around her. His hand sticks to her shoulder as he steps behind her body. She can sense the size of him. She can feel his restraint through his hand as he grazes it across the top of her back. His touch is feather light and electric through the thin fabric of her chemise as he works his way to take her ties in hand. She shivers, hands twitching at her sides, feet cramping with the desire to move.

“Shhh….” He hushes her like a spooked horse. “You can trust me.” He says on uneven breath and she jerks her head once more.

“I do.” She does - even if she had difficulty getting the idea to root entirely in her traitorous mind. She trusts him more than anyone else in her entire life.

“Good.” He sounds like he believes her. No small feat. “Now stay still.”

She does to the best of her abilities. 

He is nowhere near as quick or efficient as Gerda had been, but he is not forceful. He works slowly and she feels the shape of her corset close around her ribs. She thinks, just maybe, that she can feel the heat of him radiate against her back, the moist heat of breath at the nape of her neck. She cannot focus on this however or it will drive her mad. Instead she looked at her hands.

The incessant throbbing of her palm has not lessened and while she cannot be glad for the pain she is happy and it’s distraction. Blisters and blood are easier to understand than anything having to do with _Bjarg_ and his nearness.

“There now.” He says as he finishes. “How is that?”

She thinks to press palms against the rigid whalebone but stops herself. She breathes instead to test the tightness and finds it sufficient.

“You did well.” She credits her difficulty in drawing a breath to her reinstated corset instead of her jangling nerves.

“Good then.” He lingers behind her. “What do you need now?”

She looks at the mound of fabric on the table and is faced again by decisions she does not want to make. The fasteners on her remaining clothes are nothing as insurmountable as her corset had been. She supposes she could manage them well enough on her own but she also knows it will hurt her and in turn hurt him.

Sometimes the easiest choice is also the most difficult.

“I need my corset cover.” She gestures to the plain camisole laying with the rest of her clothes and feels a spark shoot through the air at her implicit permission.

She hears the crunch of straw beneath his boots, slow and easy, as he comes back in front of her. He picks up the cream colored garment and stands before her. She lifts her arms, sore muscles the least of her concerns as he steps into her and draws the cover over her head. Each brush of the fabric along her skin sends fire and ice skittering through her blood. He does not touch her. She cannot decide if she is glad of it or disappointed about that but she cannot argue the fact that his proximity stokes a deep, uncomfortable heat in the pit of her stomach.

“Anything else?” His voice is thick like honey. She stares at his chest just inches in front of her nose and thinks she that if it were possible she could climb inside of him and fit with ease. His body would shelter hers. He would protect her from everything. Anything. Even her own hands. 

“My skirts.” She does not mean to whisper, but she cannot muster the breath for greater volume.

He retrieves the large pile of drab fabric. He wrestles a bit to find the opening before he stoops before her and holds the waist open. Her face is on fire as she raises one booted foot after the other and steps into the hole. He takes his time in dragging the skirts up her calves, her thighs, her hips, before he fastens it at her waist. She watches his hands, so large and work rough, navigate the delicate bindings with ease. A thought of those hands working across her skin with equal ease and efficiency causes her breath to catch in her throat.

“Have I harmed you?” He asks at her gasp, ducking his head to try to see her face, but she cannot let him see. He will read her mind as he always does. He will see her conflict, her confusion, and she is not prepared for that.

“And now my bodice.” The words stick to her tongue and trip her as she evades his question but he will not lean into it.

Even in this strange dark room, in this strange dark time their unspoken code remains.

He grabs the last of her garments. The front laces are undone. He whips it around her back so she can slip her arms through the sleeves and shrug it into place. She feels the circle of his arms like a shield. She wants to burrow into them and hide, but not today. Not when her nerves are raw and her body is wrecked and she may be unwelcome. Not today and she knows it should not be any day because the thing growing in her chest when he stands so close is dangerous for both of them. _She_ is dangerous for both of them.

He grips the open edges of her bodice and tugs it so it falls as it should across her frame. She stumbles forward just a bit at the unexpected force and almost crashes into him. He steps back and cups her shoulders to ground her.

“Steady now.” He releases her shoulders when it is clear she is done wobbling. “We’re almost there.”

He begins threading the laces at the bottom, a process by which he must kneel to commence. His head still comes nearly to her shoulders even at this lowered position. His shoulders are thrice the width of her waist. She looks at him and thinks it is no wonder he was triumphant in the _hólmganga_ with only his strength and wits to serve him. He is unmovable. 

He is painstaking in his weaving of her laces through the stitch-lined holes - especially over the intimate curve of her breasts. His hands do not stray. She finds herself watching them with horrid fascination. Tender skin aches beneath layers of clothes, craving the pressure of touch, even as her heart pulses screaming panic through her blood at the thought. She can hardly breathe.

Once he has the laces threaded he proceeds to tighten them with equal care and precision. Each tug and pull of the strings is mirrored by a tightening of the beats of her heart until her pulse reaches a fevered pitch. She wants to tear the laces from his capable hands, to strip off these constricting layers and rage against the hypocritical world that demands civility but gives none. She wants to break men the way they had broken her. She wants to scream. She wants to cry.

And then he is done.

He ties a tight bow at the top and lets it fall in its place.

He stands.

“And now, _min lille venn_? Now what do you need? Anything. Anything for you.” He ghosts fingertips up her sleeves, spreading chills in their wake.

His sincerity shakes her already trembling core. She swallows a sob. He is a good man, such a good man, too good to be saddled with the burden of protecting her, of enduring her brokenness.

She does not know how to live in a world fueled by cruelty, determined to break every good thing. She does not know how to save this man from herself. She does not know what to do with the civil war of emotions and instincts within her chest. She does not know what she needs.

“I am very tired.” She says for it is perhaps not the truth he deserves but it is the truth nonetheless.

“As am I.” He agrees and she can hear a matching exhaustion fray the edges of his voice and she wonders just what has made him so tired.

He reaches for the final large item of clothing in the table and then clasps her cloak about her shoulders.

“Well then, wife,” a wry smile quirks his lips at the word. “Let’s go home.”


	14. Chapter 14

They leave the room together.

She is unprepared for the sea of unfamiliar faces, strangers who assume things about her just because of circumstance, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. He guides her, one hand warm and firm at the small of her back, and makes no move to converse with anyone. She thinks perhaps they are in the clear when she hears someone catch them midway. She looks up and sees Alva’s bright, dark eyes.

“Your hearth will be cold.” she extends a leather and copper pail filled with stoked embers, the handle wrapped in thick cloth. “And may your stores always be full.” 

She offers a second bundle Anna assumes is food. Anna takes the second gift first with her cut hand and fumbles for a way to manage the pail before Bjarg steps beside her and takes the cloth wrapped handle.

“Your great kindness is appreciated.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice is sincere and Alva’s face transforms with a broad smile.

She does not linger however and retreats back to the remaining cluster of women at the fire. Anna catches Ketil’s sharp, deep set eyes watching with grim resignation. She cannot interpret the meaning behind the gaze and she awkwardly shifts the parcel in her arms.

 _Bjarg’s_ hand stays steady at the small of her back as he guides her closer to the door. She sees Eerie Blonde sitting with Nadir and the other men at the long table. They watch them now. Their eyes are cutting, accusing. Did they know her lies? Did they read the dishonesty hanging around her like a shroud? Could they tell the blood on the sheets was not hers, that she could never give that mark of Innocence since she already had it ripped from her unwilling body?

She does not want to know.

She looks away from pair of wolves just in time to see Large Leader rise from his place at the head of the longtable and approach. _Bjarg_ stops and she does as well. She can feel the air of the room tightening like a spring as everyone falls to a hush. She thinks the sudden silence is perhaps a sign of great respect for their chieftain, but as she looks around she can see the breathless tension spiraling around each body. She looks up at _Bjarg_ and sees the unmistakable clench of his jaw, his internal brace for whatever is coming, and a chill settles on her shoulders.

Large Leader comes before them and she is struck by the size of him. He is as tall as _Bjarg_ but also holds the extra weight and girth of an older man. The shape of him is exaggerated by the thick woolen clothes and pelts he wears. Anna looks at him and thinks of a great grey bear raised on its back legs. This place is a room of wolves and bears, and she does not wonder why _Bjarg_ has never brought her to meet any of these people before now.

“Your _weregild_.” Large Leader pulls a sword from his belt and extends the hilt to _Bjarg_ , but the young man hesitates.

“This is not the weapon I won.” _Bjarg’s_ words are careful but they are not a question. “I want no part of this.”

The skin around Large Leader’s deep brown eyes tightens. His lips draw a firm line.

“This is your part, your right.” Large Leader pushes the weapon closer towards _Bjarg_ but he remains unmoved.

“I refuse this offering.” _Bjarg_ points at the hilt of the blade and Anna’s eyes are drawn to it for the first time. It is a handle made of polished bone. The surface is etched in familiar patterns. She has seen them before. A bell rings deep in the recesses of her mind.

“You refuse your _weregild_? Do you forfeit the _hólmganga_?” Large Leader’s thick eyebrows furrow in challenge.

“No.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice is hard and thick. “I refuse your sword and forfeit my claims. Whether you decide to bring dishonor on your home by by denying what is rightfully mine then so be it.”

No one moves.

No one breathes.

The fire pops and fizzes.

Large Leader withdraws the bone handled sword and replaces it at his waist without breaking eye contact with the younger man. His weathered face is dark with fury. He pulls a second sword from the deep folds of his clothes and throws it on the straw at _Bjarg_ ’s feet. It is a plain sword, functional and without beauty.

“Take it then. Take it and be gone.”

There are years in the gaze between the two men. The friction of two great wills spark and flare. Then, after a long painful minute, _Bjarg_ bends and retrieves the weapon. His bandaged hand grips the wooden handle and he stands. He looks at her then. His eyes are hot, bright, and wild.

“Come now.” He does nothing to hide the venom in his tone and even though it is not direct at her she can taste its bitterness. “There is nothing for us here.”

….

They tromp through the woods without grace or ceremony. His long, determined strides are difficult for her to match and she quickly finds herself short of breath. She does not complain. She is as eager as he is to be away from those people and their stinging words and glances. Additionally if she cannot breathe - how can she be tempted to ask after the exchange with Large Leader? She has no rights to these answers, but still the questions sit on her tongue and she wants to lean.

Energy comes off of him in waves. She can tell he is seething. For once she is sure she is not the sole cause of his angst. This is something much bigger than anything she alone could warrant. That, however, is no comfort.

They travel along the stream once they come to it. The sun is high in the sky now, blinding them as it reflects off of the new snow. She shifts the cloth tied bundle in her arms and tries not to trip over her skirts. It is difficult as she has no good hands to keep them out of the way.

When the inadvertent stumble finally arrives she lets out a grunt and _Bjar_ g stops to look back at her struggling to regain her footing. Their eyes meet and she sees something so apologetic that her chest tightens. She does not want him to apologize for her weaknesses. She cannot be less than anyone else in this place.

He covers the few steps between them in a breath. The _weregild_ sword hangs at his side, tucked into his wide belt, and glints in the sun. The pail of coals is held in his whole, right hand. He grabs her elbow with his mitten-covered hand.

“Have I pushed too hard for you, _min lille ven_?” The endearment slips easy from his tongue and causes her to blush.

“No.” She is breathless and not just from exertion. “I’m afraid it is these blasted skirts. I am forever jumbling myself up in them.”

“Well step easy then.” He looks up then along the creek in front of them. “We are nearly home.”

….

The old sod cabin is a sight for sore eyes. The garden, cold and frosted over, along with the shed and the familiar shapes of the trees surrounding it draw her deeper into the idea that this is her home now. This, a poor man’s simple homestead, the whole of it combined markedly smaller and less grand than her chambers alone had been at the palace, is where she feels safest. Here with no gates, no guards, nothing but his protection and warmth is where her spirit finds rest.

She does not know how this has happened and she feels her heart break at the idea.

At the door he pauses.

“Wait here.” He says and opens it to go inside.

He takes the package from her arms and enters the darkness without her. He emerges moments later without the pail, _weregild_ , or food. She watches speechless as he stoops and hoists her into his arms the same way he had done a few hours before at the chieftains longhouse. This time however when she settles back against his broad chest she feels a difference in the rhythm of his breathing and his blood. She cannot look up at him as she has before. Even though the gesture has not changed, she can feel the disparity all through her body as he brings her over his threshold into his home.

What had been for spectacle is now for sentiment. This means something to him. She means something to him, and her heart simultaneously soars and crashes on the notion.

He takes two steps into the room but does not set her down immediately. He waits: holding her for three breaths, four breaths, five - like he could not bring himself to release her just yet. She does not struggle. She stay safe and still in his hold, not wanting it to end and needing him to set her down with her entire might in warring intervals. When he does lower her feet to the ground he does so and agonizing intervals as though she may break if he goes any faster.

He stays close as he straightens - one arm remaining behind her back. She stands with her shoulder pressed into his diaphragm. She wants to burrow into him. She wants to turn herself into his formidable chest and surrender to his heat and charity. She wants to disappear into an embrace where she forgets where he ends and she begins. He does not pull away, and neither does she. They stay close and she can feel the rise and fall of each breath in his chest.

It is here in this weighted silence, held close and loose as she is, she realizes that he may have meant every word he swore in front of the mob that morning. He had wed her knowing full well of all of her deficiencies and none of her assets and she chokes on that implication. He could not have been in earnest. She needs him to not have meant it.

She realizes a truth: While it is hard to want, it is harder still to be wanted.

She steps away. Her head and heart exploding with conflicting needs and ideas. His arm drops to his side as the moment slips past them.

“I must collect things for your injuries.” He says at length. “It is not complicated but will take a few moments to complete.”

He is offering her space, sensing the depth if her discomfort, the war within.

“And who will tend to your wounds?” She looks at him then, focusing outside of herself. “Who will tend to you?”

“I have always tended myself.”

“But now I am here.” She says. “I am here now.”

An unfathomable depth crosses his features, dives into his eyes. She tries to follow but cannot.

“Are you?” He is somber. “Are you here now, _Logi_?”

She wants to be. Oh how she wants to be, but she cannot bring herself to say the words. Not when Arendelle it’s still so close and she is still who she is. Not when his world is already so filled with danger that promising herself on top of it will only increase his chances of coming to harm. She has made him too many promises already that she cannot keep.

Instead: “Bring what you need in here. I will stoke the fire.”

He casts a suspicious glance at her hands but says nothing. He trusts her strength. He trusts her and part of her wishes he wouldn’t.

“I’ll return shortly.” He ducks out the door but leaves it open so the daylight dreams into the windowless space. 

The fire pit is cold and bare beneath the kettle. The days of absence has chilled even the brightest of embers. She looks and finds the pail _Bjarg_ had left by the door - eager for a task that did not involve the rapid beating of her heart - the confusing war of head and heart.

She grips the handle with her bandaged hand and heaves it to the fire pit. The pull of weight against the fresh scab is painful, she feels the swell and drip of blood as it tears. She also feels the satisfaction of pressing through the sharpness, of enduring beyond the scream and ache of torn skin. She is strong. She has earned her strength.

She turns the pail over with the toe of her boot and the red coals tumble into the ashes. She thinks of the stone she had carried. She thinks of how the shape and weight of it are forever branded into her. She will bear that mark forever. She will wear it as a reminder of her strength.

She goes to the tinder basket and pulls a selection of chaff, twigs, and kindling. He places them strategically leaving spaces for both fire to eat the air and wood and grow. She does not wait for the first sparks to catch. She knows they will. She has done this enough now that she knows what to expect as she goes to select small limbs and branches to tent over the growing orange fingers. By the time _Bjarg_ returns with his pouch filled with the things he needs to the fire is well underway.

He smiles, pleased, and it warms her more than any fire could.

It is moments like these, The Quiet Moments, pure, simple, where she knows this is why she left the palace. These small kindnesses without pretenses and she wishes that this could last. She wishes she had found him at the end of her journey instead of the beginning of it. She wishes this could last.

He brings a bucket of spring water and pours it into the kettle before going to the long table where they prepare and eat their food. There he unloads his pack. 

There are herbs, a mortar and pestle, a jar of dried clay, a chain of garlic, a jar of honey, and a mound of linen strips. She knows he has repaired himself after sustaining mysterious bumps and bruises. She knows where he harvests all these ingredients as well and had helped him on occasion. She even knew his mother had taught him to ply the trade of healing, but she has never seen it like this. When she had come to him broken he had prepared what she had needed away and out of sight before bringing it in and tending her wounds.

It had been a secret and like all things left unspoken between them it had stayed that way. Now however she cannot look away. He returns to the fire with lamp in hand and draws a smoldering twig out to light the wick. The door is shut now. The fire is their sun. The lamp is their star. She follows it to the table where he begins his work.

She watches with a quiet rapture as he grinds, mixes, and sifts. There is an elegance to it that seems unsuited to his large rough hands but it is no hindrance to him. She creeps closer, inch by inch till she is right beside him. She expect him to tell her to stop bothering him, to go find something else to do. That was her experience before this place whenever she tried to visit her family during the day, but he does not and she wonders what it would be like to have him as her true family.

This is not a matter of convenience. He wants her to see this. He wants her to know this part of him, a part he kept hidden until now. He is trusting her with a piece of himself that is just for her. He cannot speak answers into her life yet, but he can show them to her.

He fetches a ladle of the heated water and brings it to add the dust of clay, garlic, calendula, licorice root, and comfrey. He stirs until a thick paste forms.

He turns to her then.

“Give me your hand.” His eyes glow in the lamplight and the idea of him touching her sends her heart racing.

“Which one?” She asks without thinking and a cloud comes over his face. His misplaced responsibility for her burned hand sends a pang through her heart.

“I suppose it does not truly matter, now does it?” He forces a chuckle and she aches at the sound of it.

She offers him her left hand, less damaged and she thinks it is a good a place to start as any. She turns it palm up and they can both see the fresh blood in the lamplight but say nothing. There is sharp satisfaction in that for her. He may be her protector but she is not without her own power.

He removes her bandage with the same care as he had the first time to reveal her wound, cracked and leaking. He takes his pestle out of the mortar bowl and smears the concoction over her wound. It stings as it seeps into the openings and she hides a wince. He takes a clean strip of linen and winds it about the now salved hand. When he has secured it he meets her eyes.

“And now the other.”

She is hesitant. If the salve had stung on the cut it will be torture on her burn, but she remembers Eerie Blonde and his fire and she knows this is necessary. _Bjarg_ would never inflict pain upon her if it would not spare her greater pain later.

She brings her burned hand up between them and is surprised anew as she surveys the mangled skin.The damage is deep and horrifying. For a moment they both just stare. She does not dare look at his face, to see what causes him to hesitate, out of fear of the wild thing. She can hear the unsteadiness in the cadence of his breathing.

He reaches beside them to the ceramic jar of summer honey and pops the lid open. He tilts it over the deepest part of her burn. The amber liquid drips onto the damaged flesh and she cannot withhold the hiss that bites through her teeth. The sensation reawakens the pain, airs it in new light, and her fingers instinctively curl against it.

“Stay open to me, _Logi_.” He coaxes. “The worst will be over soon.”

She obeys and he continues until her entire palm is coated thick with honey. He tips the bottle back down her wrist where her skin is inflamed from the boiling water. Then he takes the jar over his own good hand and pours a generous amount there. He places the bottle on the table and grips her elbow to steady her as he begins spreading the sticky liquid across her entire hand and forearm. He slathers it thick so that there is no pore, no crack, that is not saturated with it.

She watches the sureness of his hands as they attend her. The pain does not disappear but she allows herself to be hypnotized by the dizzying warmth of his nearness. He wraps each inch of honeyed skin with great care. Length after length of linen wind around her abused flesh until the whole is cocooned in a protective mitten.

“That should do.” He takes a cloth and wipes off the remaining honey from his hand. “We must change it daily to ensure proper healing.”

She nods as if she has some wisdom in this situation. “Yes. Of course. Thank you.”

The gratitude seems so slight and hollow compared to the service he had given her. She is once again adding to the impossibly long list of things for which she will never be able to repay.

“Now what of you?” They are still standing close enough together that she could easily reach out and catch his bandaged hand in hers, but she refrains. She is not sure where that will lead but she is aware of an exquisite tension building in her core at the idea.

“I’ll tend to it.” He brushes off her concern.

“Let me help you.”

“There is no need.”

“There is!”

He is quiet then, perhaps taken aback by her conviction. She thinks she was too forceful and irritated him. She ventures a wary glance up towards his face to find him watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“Please.” She looks back at his chest, flustered. “I am here. Let me aid you.”

His breathing deepens.

“Very well.” He surrenders his hand to her but it is never so simple.

She feels the challenge in it. She knows he will not push her beyond what she is able, what she wants, but he will not discount the right of finding some sort of balance between the two of them.

She lifts her left hand to his. 

Her fingertips catch the sticky edge of the honey and blood crusted bandage. She works in imperceivable measures to work the cloth down the length of his fingers, unable to single-handedly untangle the knot and unwilling to ask for his assistance, until it  finally falls to the ground. The slash across his palm is deeper than hers, wider and redder. Though they had been cut by the same blade, the same man, she can see that his cut was meant to hurt - to be remembered. The edges are raw. A scarlet halo radiates from the gash in an angry and defiant testament to unspoken pain.

This is where he bled for her, into her and her into him. This is the protection he had promised her showcased in one concise mark and despite the strength she knows he possesses she knows he is not without feeling. Her eyes sting to think of this pain he bears for her, the measures he has gone through to stay her from harm. She remembers just this morning at the _hólmganga_ and looks up at him in concern.

“He bit you. He bit your leg.” She searches his face. “What of that?”

“A bruise only.” He is so tall she is forced to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “Gunnar is accustomed to fighting with partners. He has no skill for solitary combat.” A small smile pulls at his mouth as he reassures her. “Do you have want to tend that wound as well?”

His long golden hair falls around his face and pulls strange shadows across the familiar panes of his face, but she can see the mischief in his eyes. She feels the levity of the moment like butterflies crowding her stomach. She feels the pressure inside of her until she is blushing but she does not shy away. She stays close, chest constricting to keep the butterflies in check, and her next words spill out before she can stop them.

“Whatever you need.” His gaze is an intimate torture she can hardly stand. “Anything. Anything at all.”

The humor falls from his eyes at that. His expression goes dark as the wild thing returns. She does not understand it and thus it frightens her. She ducks her head back to his hand and reaches for the pestle uncertain how this has gotten so out of hand so quickly.

She spread a liberal amount across his palm in a motion nowhere as smooth or practiced as his had been. He does not speak, does not interfere, but she can feel his eyes burn into her. Panic rises in her. Perhaps she has revealed too much, had upset the strange balance between them by needing more than she can give.

Her hand trembles as it reaches across for a clean bandage. It is difficult to wrap with only one hand at her disposal, but she manages. The challenge allows her to focus through the nerves that chew inside her. His free hand stays at his side, still and unwavering, allowing her this opportunity to care for him despite her shortcomings. At the end of the wrapping she manages to tuck the end neatly into a tight fold, securing it without needing to attempt a knot, and she feels triumph blossom in her heart.

She is about to withdraw her hand when his fingers curl up and around her wrist.

His hold is not restrictive. She could leave, but she does not. Her body freezes even as her mind accelerates and struggles against the frantic thrum of her pulse. Here in the safe familiarity of his cabin she wants to be here, right here, but she cannot want that. She cannot want him, but she does. Oh gods she does.

The brush of sticky fingertips along her cheek, down her jaw, is a surprise. She startles, but neither of them pull back. Instead she looks up at him, meeting his gaze. He is closer than he had been a moment before and she puzzles at that. She is so certain she had not moved, he had not moved, and yet here they are even closer still.

His fingers stay light on her wrist, along the edge of her neck, and she can pull back. She can. She should? She cannot.

His breath bounces off of her cheek. Her eyes drop to his mouth. It is a wide mouth, a gentle mouth, a mouth she has tasted just once in reality but realizes now that she had relived it a thousand times in her dreams. 

He hovers there, a breath away, and she is paralyzed by indecision. She cannot move closer, cannot move away, so he decides for them. 

The first touch of his mouth on her is off-center, just catching a corner of tender pink flesh, but she feels the imprint of his lips lay there like a brand. The second touch is fuller, the fingers at the side of her throat curling round to her nape. He does not move closer, nor does she. The balance between them of intimacy and distance forbids it. The courage of the akvavit is not there to aid them. The third touch is just a slow and cautious as its predecessors but this time he captures her mouth in full. 

The sensation of it is devastating. Any last shred of reason she held is eviscerated on the altar of his gentleness. It is not a demanding kiss. It is unhurried and searching. It is a question he is waiting for her to answer, but she cannot catch up to her breath much less her thoughts to construct a response. All she can do is feel, and feel, and _need.  
_

His hand curls completely around her neck and holds her steady as he continues to press kisses against her lips her until she looses track of them, cannot tell where one ends and one begins. His mouth is larger than hers, hungrier, and she cannot stop him anymore than she can stop a wildfire.

He drops her wrist and steps into her. His bandaged hand joins the other to cup her head, fingers lacing against her scalp. Her head tilts back and she opens to him with a tremor. His touch goes deeper in silken demand and she lets him.

Her hands pull up between them to rest on his chest. She has the need both to push and pull, but can do neither. Even if her hands had been in perfect condition, she could do neither. Her body is simultaneously excited and uneased. She knows where this leads, knows more of it than any woman like her should know, and just the idea of it freezes her heated blood.

She pulls back with a gasp.

He presses his forehead to hers breathing as though his lungs are shredding. His hands stay rooted in her hair. They remain that way for a long moment, inhaling each other’s exhales till the spinning world slows around them.

Then, carefully, as reality takes hold once more he disentangles himself from her. He takes several steps back from her. She looks at him and finds him looking back. She sees conflict plain on his face in a way she has never seen from him, has always felt within.

He heaves a sigh and turns sharp on his heel towards the door. He has it open with one foot out before she finds her voice.

”Where are you going?” She has never asked this of him, questions run such a premium between them, but she feels a change rising between them.

He pauses just outside the doorway and looks back at her. The daylight and the snow are a blinding contrast to the lamplight to which she has grown accustomed.

”Every man has his limit to his control, _min navnløse_ ,” He says, eyes pinning her in place even at a distance.  “And when it comes to you I am afraid my limit has become quite small.”

With that he shuts the door and she is alone.


	15. Chapter 15

He does not come back in for dinner which is fine enough since she does not prepare anything. Her stomach is too uneased from all that has happened to even think of food. She thinks, much too late, that she should have prepared something anyway just in case he wanted something. She should not be so preoccupied with what had passed between them, or the pain in her body. She should be more useful, more selfless, but was too lost in thought and pain to have done anything substantial.

Some wife she is turning out to be.

She sinks to the hearth stool. A nervous bubble of laughter wells up and escapes her lips. The sound of it is too bright, too loud, for the small, dark cabin but she cannot stop it. A wife.

She looks at her hands, marred and maimed.

Elsa would never believe –

The laughter dies.

She looks to the table with the instruments and supplies they had used to mend each other. She thinks to clean them, to erase what has transpired, but that will mean venturing into the light and chance meeting him. She is not prepared for that. Not yet. Not ever.

His parting words ring in her mind: his limit and the size of it.

She understands what he means, but it is not a warning – a threat. It is something worse. It is a truth and that has no place here in these woods. The truth when put out so plain in the open cast light on all the shadows that lurked on their edges, and there were so many shadows. Their entire relationship is a shadow and she is uncertain she is ready to see the light show it for what it truly is.

Or is she?

The kisses he had given her, that she returned, burn through her resolutions. She has been gone from Arendelle for so long. Even despite the recent visit and mishaps she thinks that surely – surely – her sister has forgotten her in her absence. Surely her sister has forgotten. Surely she must have. If her sister had not yet she would have found Anna by now and Bjarg would just be another pair of boots buried for treason.

The thought makes her stomach roil and she is again thankful she has not prepared food, but not only for the fear of Bjarg’s untimely end. If Elsa has not found her that means that she has not searched for her and Anna does not know if that is a blessing or a curse. If Elsa has not searched for her it means she does not care and that is an entirely different shade of pain.

Perhaps caring and other such natural sympathies are romantic notions she has used to pass lonely hours. She has never found conclusive proof that true affection existed in the castle, and as badly as wants to believe Bjarg’s actions stems from something deeper than obligation she cannot quite bring herself to believe it. It seems that survival, life, has precious little to do with things like caring and sentiment. Instead they have everything to do with effort and strength.

Anna wants to survive.

Anna wants to care.

She does not know how to reconcile the two.

Her head aches and so does her heart

She is uncertain of the time, but goes to the bed and lays down. The days are short now, light leaving early, and she could make use of the lamp - the fire - to complete tasks about the cabin but the state of her hands renders such endeavors impossible.

She does not undress. She does not move once she has herself settled atop the familiar pallet. She just breathes.

Infinite times passes. He comes in. She keeps her eyes shut, her breathing even, willing him to not realize that she is no more asleep than he.

His feet shuffle in the straw on the floor as he putters about the small space. She hears the sound of him eating food she had not prepared and she remembers the package Alva had sent with them. She hears him lay by the fire on that same pile of pelts and blankets that he had lain on for the long months they had spent sharing this space. His breathing falls even and deep after only a few moments, but it still is hours before she sleeps.

….

When she wakes, he is gone. The fire is stoked which strikes her as surprising. Her sleep had been fitful, but apparently she had been able to sleep through that. The air in the cabin warm from his efforts and makes the process of emerging from under bedclothes easier than it could be on such a chilled morning. She remembers the palace and how servants had skittered in and out like mice before dawn to stoke the fires in her room before she woke. She’d never known a cold morning before she had come here, and the recollections brings a bittersweet smile to her lips.

She looks at the pile of pelts he had slept upon by the fire. She is uncertain if she is glad he is gone or if she is troubled. Her chest aches with disappointment on one breath and then fills with relief on the next.

What if he had gone on one of his harvesting trips? What if his limit had grown so small that even the sight of her was more than he can bear?

She considers venturing outside to discover the answers to these questions. She considers checking the shed to see if his sleigh and reindeer are gone, but she does not trust her heart with the answer. She hardly trusts her heart with the question.

She looks at the table.

The instruments and implements remain just as they had left them the night before and she wants to imagine a different reason for them being present.

She can almost convince herself of just that. That she has just awoken from a strange dream and nothing is changed. She can almost believe that Bjarg had placed those things there for a purpose unknown to her, that she had never tried to run, that they had never gone to Arendelle, that the happenings of the hollow were nothing but the working of an overactive mind. She can almost, until she looks at her hands.

The bandages remain as a stark reminder of reality. They remind her of searing pain, of tender heat, and of words she cannot yet comprehend. They remind her of the warning that they will need to be changed this day and that is a task she cannot hope to overcome alone. She will have to rely on him, but the idea of yesterday repeating in any fashion seems only a tremendous way to break her own heart.

She is driving herself mad.

Her thoughts swirl out of control in her physical stillness. The rush reminds her of the endless tedium she experienced in the palace where her mind was left to run circles around itself and she will not succumb to that dismal fate.

She springs from the bed, exceedingly glad she had not undressed at all the night before (not that she would have been able to) or crawled beneath more than the topmost bedcloth. Even with the fire stoked she knows that there are plenty of other chores upon which she can endeavor. The pain of her hands is the same as the day before if not greater, but this world does not stop for pain. It does not slow its brutal pace, and she there is cleaning to do, food to make, bandages to wash -

She checks the pot above the fire before she lets her thoughts stray too far in that particular direction. The water from the night before had all but evaporated. She will need more, much more, for the washing. The buckets wait by the door, but she hesitates.

He is outside, no doubt nearby because if he had not run last night she cannot imagine that he will this morning, and to venture out on her task is to risk an encounter. Her heart throbs at the notion, but it is unavoidable. It is silly to even take into consideration. She cannot very well spend the rest of her life hiding away in this small house when it is his to begin with.

She steels herself on a breath and takes one bucket in her cut hand. The muscles in her arms, her shoulders, still ache from the she had done for Ketil but she does not want to dwell on that. She wants to give herself no space to over think her situation or the events that led up to it any more than she has already so she pushes open the door with her shoulder.

The world is blinding. Unseasonable sunshine bounces off of the snow and its brightness causes her to shield her eyes with her burned hand. She blinks and squints. Her eyes adjust incrementally, but as she surveys the yard he is nowhere to be found. Relief and disappointment war again in equal measures.

She sets a course for the stream. Her boots crunch through the snow. They are the same boots she had upon her escape, designed for summer, but he had fitted the inside with fur when the weather had first turned so the kept her feet warm and dry. The cloak around her shoulders, old and worn as it is, also had been provided to her by him and she thinks of caring as she enters the woods.

She is transported back to the last time she had taken these steps. Her intent to leave him still rings urgently in her breast, but she knows it is even more than foolish to attempt such things now. She had never imagined…

She swings the bucket hard and breaks the ice over the stream. The freezes had not been long or constant enough yet to require more effort than that and she fills her bucket with clean, frigid water. She is on her way back to the house, cut hand screaming at the weight, when she hears a familiar voice hale her.

“Ho now - what’s the hurry?”

Anna stops and looks down the stream. She sees the broad frame and long braid that has grown so familiar in the past few days.

“Alva?” She hears her own surprise. “What are you doing here?”

The other young woman’s cheeks are ruddy with cold as she approaches, heavy skirts in hand. “Ma sent me to collect the things I lent ya on the day of yer binding.”

Anna remembers the offerings made upon leaving the longhouse, remembers the sounds from last night that could have only been him enjoying that which Alva had prepared.

Still she had not expected…

“Of course.” She nods as the girl reaches her. She nods to the east. “It’s just this way.”

“I know the way, strange one.” Alva laughs, but it is not born of cruelty. “Some of us grew into ourselves among this trees.”  

Anna flushes. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Look at ya, all apologies. If there ever were a doubt whether ya were of our lot or no that would argue against the point against as well as anything.” She says with a twinkle in her dark, watchful eyes. “Now hand me that bucket before ya tear yer worried hands to bits.”

Anna has no time to object before Alva snatches the bucket from her wounded hand. Anna cannot quite explain the feeling she has at Alva’s arrival. It is a funny mix of apprehension and joy, and she is uncertain which is wiser. Has she been so long robbed of companionship that she will accept it from anyone who shows her the slightest ounce of kindness?

She offers Alva a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Alva clucks her tongue. “None of that. We’re simple here. We work with our hands.”

Anna is about to answer with the notion that she works with her hand just as well as anyone when they break into the clearing. Bjarg stands there in front of his cabin with a substantial portion of felled tree, halved and clear of branches, dragging behind his reindeer. Everyone freezes.

Alva is the one to break the silence.

“Hey now.” She says in a boisterous voice, stepping further into the clearing as if this is a common occurrence. “What’s all this? Forget to cut your cords for winter?”

Bjarg ignores her question.

“These aren’t your parts.” His jaw is tight. “You have no reason to be here.”

Anna does not know Alva well, but still she feels her bristle at the challenge of Bjarg’s words.

“I’m here to collect what belongs to my people.” Alva says and Bjarg spits.

“Then take it and go. No need to linger.”

Alva’s hand tightens in her skirt at his harsh reception. She lifts her chin towards his task.“Tisn’t the building season. Ya may have no mind on how to save yer own hide, but surely ye’ve no gone daft.”

Bjarg sets to loosen his reindeer from the lead that attached him to the lumber. “Leave it be, woman.”

“Yer work will spoil before ya even begin.”

“I told you - let it be.”

“Ye’ve always been hard headed but ye’ve never been stone cold foolish!”

“Take what you are needing woman and be gone!”

His voice echoes across the snow to where the stand and Anna has never heard this tone from him. She has never heard the thunder of his shout and it braids an inexplicable chill down her spine. Had he not just yesterday spoken to Alva with favor? Hadn’t Alva just stoked their hearth and provided for their table? Hadn’t Alva just been the only gentleness Anna had experienced outside of Bjarg in this strange, bitter world? Her history with them both individually makes the hostility seem out of place, but she is unable to speak, unwilling to draw attention to her ignorance.

Alva tromps forward through the snow and Anna follows dumbly.

“The gods may have dealt ya a cruel hand.” Alva says as she stomps towards the looming man. “But ya set the path ya are walking on now. No one else.”

Bjarg leaves his place alongside his reindeer and the timber dragged from the woods opposite to meet them in the middle. He cuts a broad figure, worn and young at the same time, but Alva does not flinch at his approach. She does not slow. She does not even bat an eye.

“You know just what ill will come of you if word spreads you have been to my door.” Bjarg’s voice is low, determined, but Alva meets him with equal resolve.

“I can stand twice as much as what any man can give me.” There is a vicious glint in her eye as she meets Bjarg head on.

Bjarg grunts, whether in appreciation or disdain Anna does not know, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Which is why I cannot allow you to linger.”

The hardness that hangs around Alva’s edges falls away at that. Her expression becomes softer, sadder, and Anna’s mind cannot help but question why. She knows better than to voice her inquisition, but still her eyes search his face. She sees there a strange, hidden part of Bjarg. He is younger in this moment than she has ever seen him.

Alva reaches across the distance between them and rests a mittened hand on his wrist in alarming familiarity. In an instant, Anna mind races to all the thoughts of how much better Bjarg’s life could be if she were not in it, if someone accustomed to his world had stumbled into his sphere. She looks at where Alva’s hand touches Bjarg and she is reminded of the idea that Bjarg could have had a simple love if she had not gotten in the way.

She wants that for him.

Doesn’t she?

She stares at Bjarg and Alva and feels invisible.

“My troubles are my choosing. Ye have enough on ye own.”

Bjarg’s expression does not relax at her reassurance.

“I will no stay longer than necessary. I am to fetch what I gave ya yesterday, but no one will know if I tarry a bit.”

Bjarg’s eyes lift and sweep the parameter. “The woods have eyes. You don’t know who is watching.”

Anna’s skin prickles at the idea. Who could be watching - why? And if they were, why had they never bothered them before?

“There’s nary a soul in these parts asides us.” Alva’s hand squeezes Bjarg’s arm in a way that is everything but reassuring to Anna.  “I promise ya. A herd was spotted a ways off and their all on the last hunt of the season.”

Bjarg watches Alva with the same scrutiny Anna is so used to receiving, like he is reading her, but Alva does not flinch. Anna envies that. It is not something she can ever hope to duplicate as she had too much to hide and she shrinks in that knowledge.

“No good can come of this.” Bjarg says after a time and Alva scoffs

“And no ill will come of it either.” Alva withdraws her hand and sets it on her hip, the full bucket still hanging at her side. “Ya worry entirely too much.”

For the first time Bjarg’s gaze flickers to Anna and she feels the weight of it all the way to her toes.

“I worry the amount I have been taught.”

….

Alva stays for the hour. In that time she aids Anna in boiling water and changing the dressings on her wounds. For once Anna is thankful she had not cleaned up the mess from the previous afternoon.

“It always looks worse afore it improves.”Alva says as she smears new honey over the old and wraps over Anna’s abused flesh, but it is of little comfort.  

Both injuries have taken a more sinister appearance than they had the day before, the colors deeper, insidious discharge oozes out from the center of the burn, and Anna can only believe Alva’s reassurances so much. A cold sweat has become a permanent resident along her spine. The throbbing of her head has only intensified throughout the day no matter how much water she drinks, but she says nothing. Surely Alva is correct. If not - there is a fire that waits for her. The chill that has set upon her makes her shiver.

After Alva finishes ministering to Anna’s wounds, she places the worn bandages into the pot. Boiling water and lye separate the balm and filth from the fabric as Alva gives vigorous strokes through the water with the stirring stick. The honey and clay purges from the cloth and Alva fishes them out of the steaming water.

Anna sits and watches.

She has done this before. Bjarg had shown her how in a brief, terse, lesson that led to many days of water towing, washing, and hanging. The state of her hands, however, has rendered a typical task all but impossible. She is glad for Alva as she sits on her typical chair, but it is little comfort to have someone to do the work when you know you must be able to do the work by week’s end or face the consequences. When she is done, Alva slops the steaming cloth onto the table to cool before she hangs them from the rafters.

“Mind yer hands rest as much as ye can.” She advises as she sets about her tasks. “The hollow has taken more than its fair share.”

Bjarg never joins them. They can hear him hack at the sections of timber he’d brought in. Anna thinks of the deep score on Bjarg’s palm tearing with each swing of his ax and her own palm aches. Or maybe it was aching before. She does not know for certain, but she stays silent about it regardless. She will be as strong and ruthless as the rest of the world around her.

Alva hangs the bandages from the hooks where the herbs of autumn had hung the season before and Anna watches in attempts to focus past the strange ideals that torment her now.

“I canna stay any longer.” Alva says as she wipes large hands on her functional apron. Anna wonders what it would be like to have such an apron, if this world would not seem so strange without it. “Ma will wonder after me if I tarry beyond this.”

Anna nods. Of course Alva must go, but the idea sends a shoot of fearful longing through Anna’s chest. If she takes the time to trace the root of her anxiety she will find it to be as much because she is dreading the inevitable confrontation with Bjarg as she is apprehensive that this new acquaintance us already lost to her for unknown reasons.

“I understand.” She says though she does not, but she stands. “Thank you for all of your assistance.”

Alva laughs her deep, throaty laugh. “Ya kept me from havin’ to go to a birthin’ with Ma. The woman’s been striving to have this child an entire week and I dunno if I could stand another hour at her bedside without going mad myself. It is I who should be thankin’ ya!”

The words strike Anna. She has been so lost in the strangeness of her situation the days before that she has never considered that Alva had not been there at the house that day she had been there helping Ketil. She has grown so used to not asking questions that the very idea is shocking. She cannot ask questions when she cannot answer them.

“Still you have my gratitude.” Anna says instead and thinks of friendship and what that could mean, what that could cost both herself and her companion.

Alva blusters past the praise. “We all must do our parts, mustn’t we?”

Anna smiles. Alva’s approach is so refreshingly brisk and unhindered that Anna feels her own hopes rising on the tide of forgotten exuberance. Though it is unlikely that Alva will become the friend her heart has longed for - even the potential is enough to bolster her spirits. Someday, somewhere, she will have a friend. The idea is enough to make her smile through her growing headache.

Anna watches Alva fetch and don her cloak and gloves. She hates to consider Alva’s departure knowing that this may be the only afternoon she ever spends with her contemporary. She tries to stall the goodbye.

“I am sorry he never came inside.” Anna stands by the door, but props her shoulder against the door. Her head is strangely dizzy. “He can be so stubborn.”

Alva chuckles, but it lacks her usual merriment. “Ah well. He is no without his reasons.”

Anna wants those reasons. She thinks of Alva’s hand on his arm. She thinks of Large Leader’s parting charge. She thinks - but her head is even more clouded than normal.

“Will you come again?” Anna asks as Alva gathers her hearth pail and the cloth from the day before and Anna is proud that her voice stays straight and true.

“As soon as I am able.” Alva says as she puts her hand on the door and smiles at Anna. “But don’t hold yer breath, strange one. I wouldn’t if I were ye.”

She makes moves to push back out into the cold world, as Anna’s mind struggles to assign meaning to Alva’s words. She leans forward as the door cracks open. The frigid outside air bursts against her face and it should refresh her, but it only causes the strangest sweat to break out across her body. It confuses her, or had she already been confused?

“What would you do?” Anna asks, squinting against the brightness. “What would you do if you were me?”

Alva sighs, strangely somber, and pierces Anna with her steady gaze.

“If I were ya,” she starts, then stops herself as if she thinks better of finishing. She pushes the door open further and takes a step. Her gaze leaves Anna’s to scan their surroundings. “If I were ya -” Her voice is quiet. “I’d ask him about his mother.”

And with that Alva is gone and Anna is alone again.

….

Anna attempts to prepare some sort of meal for dinner, but between the state of her hands and the strange swimming sensation that pulses throughout her body keep her from doing so. Alva had done the great service of draining and refilling the kettle as that task, even when at her fullest, is insurmountable, but she cooks nothing in it. Instead she nibbles on a few roots from the larder, but even those turn her stomach. Every time she rises from her chair to make something more substantial she loses energy with each motion until she is forced to sit again.

She should have had Alva help her prepare a meal. She should not have focused so much on re-bandaging her wounds without Bjarg’s help. She should be able to still work and be as able as Bjarg to contribute to their home, but she cannot. She cannot add the way he is, not even fresh bread or warm fare. She is left to wonder at the sounds erupting in spurts outside and to swallow against the strangeness rising inside of her.

Alva had tried to clarify his actions while she had been present.

“He’s building, he is. Looks to be adding to ye home, but the wood will have no time to cure afore the winter sets in for good and will spoil. The time to build is the thaws, not the frosts.”

While Anna does not understand the nuance of or even the grosser concepts of building structures, she supposes she understands.

What she does not suppose, however, is that the tension that stands in the air is anything less than real. She knows it is. She can feel it thrum in her bones as much as she can feel the throb of her heartbeat behind her eyes. She had seen that same tension, the weight of things unsaid, wrap Alva and Bjarg earlier. She knows that shroud, but still it is so different to see other wrapped in it while she stands outside.

She thinks of Alva’s parting words but she can make no sense of them.

She will not ask Bjarg about his mother. She cannot.

Can she?

He comes in after the last light of the day is gone. She slumps in a chair over the repairs of her torn dress but she will not finish tonight. She can barely focus well enough to make a single stitch, much less figure the best way to repair the complicated garment torn awkwardly during their struggle in the woods. Still her eyes come up to the door when he presses inside half frozen.

His shoulders are slumped. His face is red and windburned. When he pulls his mittens from his hands she sees the fresh blood that has crusted his bandage and she looks at the paste that Alva had rehydrated for their purposes to see if it has retained its usability, but she cannot see it from her vantage point and standing seems impossible under the weight of his gaze. His eyes are dark and hollow though she imagines a spark at the sight of her.

These same eyes take in the bandages hanging to dry from the rafters. He grunts.

“This is what you did with your time together?”

It is not accusatory, but it stings still. Her previous train of thought steams back on track. She should have been more judicious with her time with Alva. She should have done something more to help him. She should have -

“Yes. She tended my wounds.”

He jerks his head. “Probably best that way.”

There is no malice in his tone, but the implication stings through her crowded mind.

Is he already regretting what passed between them the night before, what was said? Her eyes go again to his bandaged palm and she sees his blood. The same blood he shared with her. She wonders at the notion of a promise becoming a scar.

She is eager to change the subject, but her mind is moving too slowly to make it effortless.

“Alva also said your intent behind the timber is that you endeavor to build.”

He doffs his hat and hangs it on its peg. His hair is tinged with frost around his shoulders.

“Yes. I endeavor to build.” He replies, but does not elaborate and her mind runs wild.

Why is he building? What is he building? What if his timing is all wrong as Alva alluded? It would be no great surprise. Their timing has never been superb.

He takes in the meager, cold fare she had set out on the table without complaint, but she cannot imagine he is excited to consume hard roots and dried meat.

She should have made something else.

Her sewing remains on her lap, but she cannot bring her mind to attend it. She swallows around a dry throat as he sinks into his customary chair and begins to eat. He keeps his focus on his food and she turns her eyes to look anywhere but him. Her eyes land on the fire. It is burning low. She should stoke it.

“Leave it.” He says as she stands and heads for the kindling by the door.

She frowns. “What now?”

“I said to leave it.”

He repeats and she remembers how he had said the same words to Alva earlier in the day. Had there been other words he had said to Alva the same as he spoke to her in another time, another life? The idea takes root in her troubled mind, but she cannot pursue it. Her thoughts are clouded with a fog of heat and confusion. She returns her thoughts to the fire.

“It needs mending.” She reasons.

“And I will mend it.”

“But -”

“Are you trying to go to your death?” He pounds his palm to his thigh and the clap of it is loud enough to startle her. “Mending the fire may very well send you to stoke your own in the hollow so leave it and rest.”

She looks at him in the dim glow of the fire. His mood is darker than she can ever remember seeing, and she thinks she must have bothered him with her constant insufficiency. After all, she has bothered herself with it for certain.

“I must do my share.” She treads lightly. “I cannot be expected to sit as a drudge, doing nothing.”

“I managed my own affairs quite well before your arrival.” He takes a bite of root, the crack of it like he is punctuating his own points. “I am certain I can manage again until you are whole once more.”

There is something dismissive in his tone that stings deeper than any physical wound. She has seen this irritation before when they left the longhouse and again her mind is drawn to Alva, to the world in which he had clearly belonged at one point though he did no longer. She thinks of the castle and realizes that closed doors could be present in much more than just a physical sense.

She looks at her feet to avoid his indifferent gaze.

“I only want to be helpful.” She says and he sighs.

He is quiet and still then and it only makes her want to move, but even the idea of moving is exhausting. Her body, her mind is so overwrought with the events of the previous days that she is stuck between the need to run and the need to fall where she stands. She wishes they could go back to when things were easier, when the silence between them did not hang with things unsaid, but it is impossible. Time is unchangeable, immutable.

She does not want to look at him, but she can feel his gaze pulling her eyes to his as inexplicably as the waves to the shore. His eyes are deep and dark. He stands, keeping her gaze locked with his, and he takes up more space than just his body. The gravity of his presence takes up the entire room and she can feel him press against her body as surely as when he had held her in his arms.

The idea sends her heart to her throat and she is already burning without the heat of the fire to warm her.

“You give me no help in breaking yourself further.” She can hear the wild thing scratching in his voice, can see the tendons strain on the sides of his neck.

She does not shrink however. He will cause her no harm, but he will harm himself and the hypocrisy of it drives her wild.

“And what of you?” She points at his bloodied bandage. “You tear yourself apart and for what? To build when it is not the season for building?”

His eyes grow a shade darker.

“They will not burn me for my wounds as they will you for yours.”

“And that gives you permission to destroy yourself?” She remembers all the times he came home ragged, cut, and bruised. She wonders how much of it was as unnecessary as his hand.

She can hear the strain in his voice to keep it low and even.

“There are things at work here _Logi_ that you do not understand.”

Her head throbs. “Then make them plain to me! I am your _wife_.”

He comes up short then, chest rising and falling on a staggered breath, and he meets her eyes in a way that she can feel throughout her entire body. She had not meant to speak that word into their small haven, to invoke its power and acknowledge its reality when she can never honor it completely. A heated chill fills her body as sweat reemerges on her back, her neck, even as her face flushes, but she does not look away. She does not give ground.

He takes one step towards her, arms flexed stiff at his sides, and his face moves into shadow.

“Tell me your name.”

Her entire world tilts. He has not leaned this hard in so long and she can feel her walls give way. _Anything_ \- she had said. Anything but this. She panics.

“You know my name.” She cannot quite bring herself to wrap her tongue around any title he had given her anymore than she could speak the truth.

“No.” He shakes his head, something sad and deep shifting beneath his words. “And I fear I never will, will I?”

He holds her gaze for one breath, two, but she has no response. She cannot tell him the truth. To do so would be to damn him, to damn herself. She sees the wave of disappointment wash over his face. He steps towards her and she steps back, a reflex, but he presses past her - pointedly avoiding even the slightest brush of their clothing. He goes to where the dry logs are kept by the door and takes what he needs. Wordlessly, he stokes the fire but she cannot bring herself to look at him. She cannot bring herself to move.

She hears him finish and go to the door. She feels the winter night blow in, but she does not dare look back to him.

“I am harvesting tomorrow. I will return the next day.” The first crunch of his boots hit the snow, but then stops. “For the love of Odin - don’t do anything foolish.”

He does not come back the rest of the night, not even to sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

She wakes with knives in her throat, drums pounding in her head, and the burn on her hand pulsating a sickening rhythm. She is shaky, weak, but she needs to relieve herself. She needs a drink of water. She needs to stoke the fire.

She rolls to sit on the edge of the pallet and blinks blurry eyes with teeth chattering. Yes. The fire need to be stoked, to be certain. She is freezing despite the fact that her body is wrapped in sweat. She needs to revive it before the coals go cold. _Bjarg_ is gone till the morrow so she must do it. She must do it.

With concerted effort she stands and goes to the waste bucket to relieve herself. She’ll need to empty it to the nightsoil container off of the garden, but the idea alone is exhausting. She will do it when she wakes again.

When she finishes so goes to the barrel by the door filled with drinking water from the stream. She opens it and uses the ladle hanging from it to take long, greedy gulps. It is simultaneous agony and ecstasy for her throat. She drinks till her belly is bursting but fire still remains.

She looks back to the hearth, so certain she has that final task to complete, but sees that it is stoked already. She doesn’t understand. She was so certain it had been dormant. Hadn’t it? Why else would she be so cold?

Her stomach cramps around the water.

What time is it?

She goes to the door and cracks it open. Clouds have rolled in, but the light seems to indicate mid-morning. She has not slept in this late since she lived in the palace and she knows he is long gone by now. She thinks him wiser for it. If she could go - she would. A fuzzy part of her brain tells her that now may be her last chance to run, that she should because her wound has turned and she will either die trying to escape or by fire, but she is too tired to heed it.

She closes the door.

She will run, but she must rest first.

She needs her strength - has none right now - is so, so tired.

Two steps away from the door she collapses to the straw covered floor and does not get up.

….

It is dark in her dreams at first. She sees Elsa but at a distance. She calls and calls but her sister only grows further away. The one time she manages to catch Elsa, grabbing one willowy arm, she vanishes into icy smoke. After that, Anna sits in the darkness and wonders if there why she even tried.

….

There is a hill in the garden at the palace. It is not large, but large enough that Anna proclaims it a mountain and hosts tea parties upon its summit. She is there now, tea party in full swing, and the ducklings are there because she feeds them crumbs. They are her most constant and only companions in such adventures, but today’s event is different than the others.

Lightning splits the sky and her mountain collapses in on itself, swallowing Anna whole beneath the earth.

She screams, but no one hears her.

….

She is drowning. Water gulps her down whole and she fights but it is not enough. The last thing she sees is a pair of skeletons on the ocean floor wearing her parent’s crowns, fish nibbling at their bones.

….

The trees have faces as she trips through the woods.

Alva, Nadir, Elsa, her parents, the guards from the road outside of Arendelle, Large Leader, her governess, the officer she cut on the ship… and they are all screaming - branches reaching for her. The sound makes her brain bounce around in her skull until it feels like it is exploding. She cannot understand what they are saying, cannot get anywhere quiet enough to hope to understand.

She smashes the heels of her hands against her ears and stumbles to try any find someone, anyone, who can tell her what is happening. She tries to find Bjarg, to find a tree with his face on it, but she never does no matter how long she scours the screaming forest.

She is lost.

He is gone.

….

Shadows grab at her clothes and tear. She tries to escape, but cannot fight them off. There are too many. They are too strong. Her body refuses to move as the shadows tear her limb from limb.

….

She is back in the bed of his sleigh. Her body is bundled and wrapped and she cannot move, but she is moving. She feels the motion of the sleigh as sky, dark and wrapped in moonlight, flashes across her blurred vision.

She swears the branches above are reaching for her too, and she tries to cry out - to warn him - but the sounds don’t come. They are cut to ribbons in her razor blade throat and she chokes on them until the darkness envelopes her once more.

….

A giant holds her to his chest. His arms are too tight, too hard, and he is ugly. Or at least she thinks he is ugly. She cannot be certain in the starlight. He has hands made of crystals and they are sharp where they hold her. She can smell moss and minerals and there are others moving around them. She thinks she has seen shadows like this before and she wonders just how many dreams she will have before she wakes, before she leaves.

The giant is cold. The air around them is cold. He takes her from his chest and lays her on a bed of black and snow quartz. The pieces are fitted together in swirls and turns and she has seen these patterns before but she cannot remember where. She isn’t sure it is important when the giant touches the bed with his crystal hand and there is an explosion of light.

She can see nothing but the purest white, but it does not blind her. She accepts the light, bathes in it.

She feels the light course through her. She had not known light could do that, but the brilliance pours through her body and she can feel it spread like quicksilver through her blood. Pain comes as she feels her very essence shifting. She squeezes her eyes shut against it but still all she sees it light.

As the lights ebb, her eyes crack back open. The quartz still glows around her though not with the same blinding intensity. She sees steam and geysers and mountains with crystal hands shifting along the treeline and out of the corner of her eye she sees a flash of long golden hair. _Bjarg_?

Then one long crystal finger touches her temple and in a voice like a distant clap of thunder commands her:

“Sleep.”

Isn’t she already? She does not have time to answer her own question before her mind goes dark.

….

She is floating on clouds made of silk and gossamer.

Clouds strip into ribbons and wrap her weightless form.

She is transforming, cocooned in warmth and air, but the world changes again before she ever sees her final form.

….

She is walking through a field of grain, ripe for harvest. She looks to the distance and sees Arendelle but the palace is not there. It has crumbled to nothing. She looks back across the field and sees him waiting for her.

She runs to him but the space between the rows stretches and stretches adding three strides for every one she takes.

She never reaches him.

….

He is cutting down the screaming forest, using his axe to silence the noise so she can sleep. He hears him murmuring that she should sleep, but she does not see him. A thick fog has settled. She lays down among the stumps and tries to do as he says.

….

The first thing she sees is gold. Fine yellow strands of every shade fall across his arm where his forehead rests in the crook of his elbow. His head and arm rest on the pallet inches from where she sleeps. The rest of him is out of sight, presumably draped down onto the ground next to them, but she cannot assume anything. Not in this dream world.

She looks around from where she lies. The cabin is dark. She waits for the shadows to move, to attack, but they don’t. She waits for the ground to open up and swallow her, but it stays firm beneath her. She waits for him to disappear or rise up as some sort of spook, but he stays unmoved, unchanged. Everything remains as it is.

She realizes then that she is awake and it is he who slumbers. Her mind feels as thick as porridge, but she knows that if he has returned she has slept a day and night. She knows that he has moved her to the pallet from the floor, but that is all she knows. Her fever dreams leave her exhausted in a completely foreign way.

The thought of fever sparks a new realization in her mind. She is ill, or at least she had been. She takes a mental inventory of condition to find all that has ailed her before sleep now is restored unto her. She is well. Not even her burn -

She startles upright and he jerks his head from his arm, blinking heavily, awoken by her sudden movement.

“You are awake.” His voice is thick and low, but she can hear his relief.

“My hand.” She pulls at the bandages. “My hand does not pain me.”

He shakes off whatever of sleep lingered when he sees her tear at the cloth covering her wound. His large hands enclose over hers to still them.

“Easy now. You’ve a fever. Your mind is troubled.” He tries to repair the damage she has done in her hasty unwrapping.

“The fever is gone.” She takes his hand and presses it against the cool skin of her forehead. “See?”

She can tell he sees but not only that her fever has broken. What he sees is her, and no matter how many time she realizes this it always catches her by surprise. She snatches her hand away, but his remains on her face, slipping down to her cheek. His unbandaged palm rests along her jaw, the pad of his thumb sweeps the length of her cheekbone. She looks down at him and sees the wild thing stirring behind his eyes. Her face heats with an entirely different kind of fever.

“My hand.” She whispers, unable to raise her voice any further. “It is whole again. I can feel it.”

She lowers her face to escape his touch, to bring attention back down to her bandages. He lets his hand fall away from her face, but not without letting his fingers brush the side of her neck in a way that sends a shiver down her spine. With that same hand he finds the end of her wraps and begins the careful process of unwinding them.

This is not the wrapping Alva had done, Anna realizes. Alva’s wraps had been looped and crossed in a much different way. This was Bjarg’s handiwork which means he tended her as she slept. The idea flusters her. She knows he would not take advantage, did not, but the thought of him caring for her in such a way makes her heart speed ahead of itself.

He arrives at her wrist. The skin on her forearm is no longer red or blistered. The sticky coat of honey makes it difficult to assess any more than that. He takes his time unraveling her hand, careful to not pull too hard and rip or tear anything in the process, and she again finds herself transfixed by the gentleness of large hands.

When at last his is finished she cannot believe her eyes. Despite the honey and dim light she can see whatever infection had held her before is gone. Moreover, the skin is already healing over in dark pink patches. There are no open sores or oozing places, no blisters or ruptures to be seen. She closes her hand and brushes fingertips to the sticky center of her palm, but there is no pain - only pressure.

She does not know how this is possible.

“Can it be?” She examines every angle. “I’ve slept but a day. It could not have healed so quickly.”

She looks at Bjarg to see him frowning.

“You did not sleep a day, Logi.” He shakes his head. “This is the fifth night you have slept.”

She hears the words, but she cannot make sense of them. Fifth night?

“That’s not possible.” She looks to him with wide eyes. “Is it?”

“You woke at times for thirst or to cry out, but not beyond that.” He looks at her hand. “It seems to have done you a great service for at dawn they will come to take you to the hollow.”

She has no experience with healing, with medicine, but she thinks still this is miraculous. Surely sleep and honey alone could not have mended her with such expedience. Could it? She frowns.

“I dreamt as I slept. I dreamt a great many things.” She says.

“You spoke in your sleep and I knew you were dreaming.” He says and she remembers that he has told her so much before, that it seems to be a habit of hers.

“You were in my dreams. I saw you many times and when I couldn’t see you I looked for you.” She looks to him and meets his eyes. Her mind is still muddled with remnants of illness and prolonged sleep and so she asks: “Were you there? Did you heal my hand?”

He looks at her like he understands, but wishes he did not. It is an expression she cannot begin to fathom. 

“No. No it wasn’t me.” He cradles her wrist in his hand. 

“Then how?”

He does not answer immediately, but when it does it is with a question of his own.

“Do you believe in magic?” He asks, but she cannot reconcile his question to hers. Perhaps she misheard for sleep and heat.

“Pardon?” She recalls in her hazy state tales of the draugen, dwarves, and nisse that had regaled her throughout childhood, but had never been given a second thought.

“Magic. Do you believe in it?”

She looks for humor, for teasing, but there is none. There is something in his tone: leading, wanting, that sends a dizzy nervousness through her blood. Her mind circles in on itself. What did this have to do with anything? 

“I confess I do not know much about magic.”

“I care not what you know.” His tone comes out more harsh and urgent than she expected. It catches her off guard in this quiet space, eyes full of intent. “I want to know if you _believe_ in it.”

He looks up at her and he is _leaning_ , but not on her walls, on his. The intensity of his eyes draw her towards the truth, but it is dangerous ground for both of them and her eyes shoot down towards her hand, the bed, his shoulder. She remembers light and shadows and her mind cannot draw any conclusions. She can barely think past the idea that she has slept away near a week of her life. She can barely think.

She curls her fingers back into her burned palm, calloused fingertips touching new scar tissue and:

“No. No I don’t.”

She is not sure if that is the truth. She does not know what she believes any more, has not known what the truth is for a long time, but she cannot give him any more false hope than she already has.

“It is better that way.” He says, but she is not certain she believes him. 

He withdraws then, but not physically. No, he captures her hand and begins to rebind it in sticky bandages, but she can tell he is far away by how decisive he is in his wrapping.

“It is a few hours yet till dawn.” He says as he finishes. “Best to lay back and settle your mind, _min navnløse_. There is not left to do till the light shows what we need to see.”

He finishes his task and moves over to his bed on the other side of the fire. She feel his absence as if she had known he had been with her as she slept, but that was nonsense and he was right. Her sleep addled state was no way to meet her judgement. She will rest now, wake refreshed, and absolutely not spend more time than she should worrying about just what truths would come with the light of the sun.

….

They wake just as the sun peeks above the horizon. He offers her bread and water to revive her. After days of not eating her stomach demands more but he does not supply it.

“Best to do this is measures, _min lille ven_.” He says as he finishes his portion. “Those awoken from sleeping sickness all too often gorge themselves to more damage than good.”

He speaks as if he knows and she trusts him. He has no need to lie, and she will eat again soon enough he assures her, but first the hollow.

He goes out to wait at the first sound of footsteps in the forest, his ear acutely trained for such a thing, and waits. She stays inside but dresses for the cold trek, taking extra care when pulling on the fur-lined, leather mittens he had provided her so as not to skew her bandages. She stays inside and thinks of magic and how she wishes she could ask him just what he meant when he asked those things in the middle of the night. 

Had he even asked them or had her addled brain imagined it? She cannot be certain, but she can certainly mull over it. She does not have long for such thoughts however.

The door opens and _Bjarg_ stand there. He nods and she understands. It is time. 

Cold anticipation sits like a rock in her stomach, and she tries to tell herself she has nothing to fear. Her hand is healing. That was the stipulation of the trial, but as she comes out of the small cabin to an assembly of surly faces she cannot be certain. Some of the group are familiar: Large Leader and Sigfrid looking bleak, Gunnar and Nadir looking irritable, and Eerie Blonde - well Anna prefers not to look at him and his strange, watchful eyes.

These are the men that will take her to the hollow. These are the men who will pass judgement upon her. She never had to fear the judgement of men when she lived in the palace, but she is not sure this is a worse fate.

When she appears in front of them, Large Leader only nods before turning and heading in what she assumes is the direction of the hollow. Everyone else follows his lead except Nadir. Nadir steps towards her with gruff intent and she shrinks from his steps. A steady hand cups her elbow.

“I will deliver her to the hollow. You needn’t trouble yourself.” It is _Bjarg_ , and the skin around Nadir’s mouth tightens in response to the challenge.

“Ye weren’t called.” The bite in Nadir’s voice stings her skin.

“I need not be called. We share a blood bond.” He holds up his palm, unbandaged, where the deep score mark rests as proof of his claim.

The sight of it, the legitimacy of whatever claim _Bjarg_ has, is enough to leave Nadir to spit at their feet.

“The only bond that matters to ye, on all counts.” He speaks with enough bile to burn Anna anew, but the words are not directed at her. They are aimed straight at _Bjarg_ ’s heart. She tenses at the attack, is compelled to deflect it, but _Bjarg_ ’s hand tighten on her elbow and she stills.

“She is enough.” He says, and does not wait for Nadir’s response.

Instead he propels her through the snow (which has grown in depth while she slept) in the path left behind by the men who came for her. His hand stays firm on her elbow, his eyes straight ahead. The strength of him, of his presence at her side, bolsters her spirits even as the crunch of Nadir’s boots behind them dampens them.

She glances up at _Bjarg_ ’s face whenever she dares, drawing courage from his steadfastness. The dawn light cuts through the trees giving his cheeks a tawny glow, adding warmth to the whiskey color of his eyes, and she does not know how she can ever be enough for such a man. She does not know how, but she knows she will try. At least for as long as she can.

But she cannot entertain the thoughts of freedom, of running, just yet. There will be a time for that, but not today. No. Not today. Today she will finish what was started. Today she will face the hollow.


	17. Chapter 17

They proceed to the hollow in silence. Only the snow crunching beneath their boots, the sounds of the forest awakening, echo around them. _Bjarg_ keeps his hand firm cupping her elbow. She is all too aware of the grumbling man behind them, can feel his seething like arrows in her back, but she tries to not let that distract her steps. She remembers the importance of being sure of foot when it comes to approaching the hollow.

The group stops at the far edge of a field she does not recognize. Is this the place she had stood shivering and afraid one week before? Now covered in thick snow and without the fear of absolute uncertainty blurring her vision it appears so different.

Sigfrid approaches with a rope. She knows what he wants and extends her wrists. He binds them firmly, but not cruelly. _Bjarg_ watches, eyes guarded, and gives a terse nod towards the older man when he finishes. Then they walk again.

It is a narrow path they step onto between the trees, narrower than she remembers, and it is a tight fit with _Bjarg_ clutching her arm in his large hand. She steps in careful measures, keeping watch for roots. She is so certain of her footing, of her sureness of step, that when the ground rushes up to meet her it knocks the wind from her lungs.

She lands on her knees with a galvanic shock, her bound hands catching her from falling further into the snow. She knows the term of this fall. She knows the price is the slitting of her throat, but she cannot understand it. She had been so on watch, so on guard, against a fall that it could not have come from her. Her feet had caught on nothing. The only other source would have had to be her protector, her rock.

Her eyes whip to _Bjarg_ beside her to find him in much a similar posture expect that he is not looking at her. His hat has been knocked to the ground in front of him but he does not reach for it. His hand stays locked on her arm, his other bracing himself against the snow as he takes a staggered breath. He shakes his head around and she sees the first drips of blood trickle from his hair to stain the white beneath them.

He rears back but is not steady in it. Perhaps for the reason that she had not anticipated his movement and she weighed him down momentarily or even more so perhaps for the gash at the back of his head turning the bright gold of his hair copper. She sees the heat and confusion in his eyes as he tries to gain his bearings and bring them both to their feet. She also sees the group ahead of them stop at the commotion and turn with dark expressions. _Bjarg_ seems that he could not care less about them as he releases her arm and turns. 

She watches from the side of her eye as he bends to pick up a stone the size of a man’s fist, coated with blood. His blood. Her throat pulses. She does not need to look behind her. She knows that all she will see is that this was no accident.

“You tempt the fate of these woods.” His voice hides none of the rancor she had seen in his eyes. “To deal such a blow here is gutless.”

The group of elders and other approach. Large Leader is at the front followed closely by Sigfrid. Both wear faces of tight disbelief.

“What is this now?” It is Large Leader, but he does not look to her. His eyes stay fixed on the growing bloodstain on the back of _Bjarg_ ’s head.

“Your rearman has attempted to sway the issue of our arrival to the hollow for fair judgement.” _Bjarg_ does not turn to address his inquisitor, instead he keeps his eyes focused on his assailant.

“These two have no right to the hollow.” It is Nadir’s voice behind her, as sharp as swords and her stomach turns at the memory of blood she’d drawn. “Ya know this as well as I.”

“You have no say over the tradition of the hollow -” _Bjarg_ begins before he is interrupted by Nadir.

“But what good are our traditions when ya have yer own witch ta worship?”

 _Bjarg_ takes a step but she feels her own bound hands catch his arm to still him before she can stop herself. Though she is turned towards him she does not look at his face, cannot bear it. The heat of his anger scorches her already. She knows that her hands do nothing to restrain him, that if he wants to he can brush her aside without strain, but he does not and somehow that simple act shields her from the venom of Nadir’s insults.  

“They are bonded, these two, Nadir.” It is Sigfrid this time, and she sees the sadness on Sigfrid’s face, the confusion, and disappointment at his son’s actions. In the depth of her heart she feels a twinge of misplaced sympathy for Nadir. She knows all too well what it is like to be less than her family wanted.

“Bonded or no they have both fallen in the sacred wood. They must serve judgement as all the rest.” It is Gunnar now. The appetite for revenge is still ripe on his face and Anna’s gut twists.

She wants to scream that they had not fallen, that they were just as well as pushed to the ground and where is the justice in that? Where is their precious honor? She does not have the chance.

“There be a difference between falling by one’s own folly and being forced to your knees by another and the wood knows that difference.” It is Large Leader and Anna can feel _Bjarg_ ’s muscles tighten against her palm at the sound of his voice.

“Aye. I dunna remember a single life the wood ever took that shouldna been.” Nadir spits and then her hands on _Bjarg_ ’s sleeve is not enough to hold him.

 _Bjarg_ lunges and there is a surge of bodies. She loses track of things in the flurry. Her arms pull back to her chest to protect her face and body as others collide against her, eyes trying to follow _Bjarg_ ’s path, but the commotion makes it difficult. She hears yelling, the tearing of fabric, before Large Leader and another elder drag _Bjarg_ back to where she can see their faces. Beyond them on the other side she sees Nadir restrained by Sigfrid and Eerie Blonde. His lip is split and eyes blazing.

“We are wont to end this then, are we no?” It is Nadir. “If tradition is what Kristoff cares for now then let tradition mark our path.”

There is a stinging silence amongst the group then. Anna can hear her own breath, her own heartbeat, in the instant. She has been among them just enough to realize the challenge that has been laid.

“Ya call it upon yerself, Nadir.” This time it is Large Leader who speaks. “Whatever dishonor ya land upon yerself, mind ya donna let it touch yer house.”

“As you’ve let it touch ya own?” Nadir’s charge comes hurried and unconsidered. The weight of it, however, is felt as it pulses through the air.

Anna sees Large Leader’s mouth open to respond even as she hears _Bjarg_ ’s voice penetrate the silence.

“If you have the courage, we will end this today with fate and witnesses to decide what we deserve.” _Bjarg_ ’s voice grinds over each word.

“Enough! This has gone far enough.” It is Large Leader and this time _Bjarg_ twists his face to confront the man straight on.

“No. It has only gone as far as you have allowed, only as you have allowed.” And the tension that has been winding tight snaps across _Bjarg_ ’s face as he speaks.

Large Leader’s expression is his mirror, the snap washing his face in a cold resentment Anna has only seen once before the night she left the palace.

“So be it.” Large Leader releases _Bjarg_ ’s arm with a jerk, Eerie Blonde following his lead, and steps back. Large Leader gestures with a swift nod of his head towards Nadir. “Come to the front then Nadir. Ya father will take yer place as rear guard. We will settle this as the hollow decides.”

Anna’s close as Nadir comes forward with a wolfish grin. She listens for _Bjarg_ ’s breathing and thinks to reach for him though he is a few feet from her now and her hands are bound. She steps into him as the group rearranges and presses into his side. She thinks she smells the metal of blood and looks up to where his scalp still oozes. She looks back to where his blood stains the snow and tries not to consider the violence that accompanied the act.

She meets Nadir’s eyes, hard and defiant, as he passes them. She feels the pain of his gaze, of so many things left unsaid. It is a pain she recognizes all too well, but she does not understand it in these terms.

 _Bjarg_ turns then to face the way he should. She follows suit, and interrupts her thoughts as she remembers the pain he shows more obviously in blood. She bends to take his hat in bound hands, still abandoned in the snow, before they go on and offers it to him. He smiles a grim smile, but does not take it.

“Hold it for me.” He takes firm hold of her arm once more. “I’d hate to lose track of it again.”

…..

They make it to the hollow in even more somber procession than before, if that is possible. The narrow path grows narrower until _Bjarg_ is walking behind her with his hands clamped on her shoulders. No more rocks are thrown, but she feel the gravity of what is happening like a boulder on her chest.

When they break through to the hollow her eyes fall on a large pile of brush and branches where the kettle had been a week ago. Her eyes find Eerie Blonde to discover him watching her in return. A shiver runs down her spine. No matter what transpired in the dark wood, this is why they are here. This is why they have come.

She wonders how many of these man came just because they want to see her burn, or to see _Bjarg_ watch her burn. Her stomach turns.

 _Bjarg_ stays close and careful beside her, though no longer touching, as the elders and others assemble before them. It is then she realizes she is the only woman present, but there is no time to ponder this. The five elders stand firm and ready for what is to come. Anna attempts an imitation. She has nothing to fear. Her hand is healing well, but it gives her no comfort. Too much remains unknown to her.

Large Leader steps forward.

“We have come here upon solemn purpose.” He begins, and Anna tries not to lock her knees. “But the action in the wood is a matter of fresh blood and fresh blood demands justice before we test the girl.” He says and Anna’s gaze whips to _Bjarg._

His only reaction is the slightest tensing of his jaw, but Anna can see the resolve in his eyes. This is not what he wanted - yet at the same time it is, and she wonders if she will ever know the reason why.

“You are the challenged.” Large Leader addresses _Bjarg_ , his voice is tinged with something darker, deeper than formality. “You name the terms.”

 _Bjarg_ looks to Large Leader, to Nadir, and she watches each flicker of his expression. “Fists and wits, no weapons. No _weregild_ but honor.”

Nadir snorts and spits, but says nothing.

Large Leader draws himself up on a deep breath. “Draw the borders then.”

The four remaining elders go each with their sword to the place where Anna had seen _Bjarg_ fight a week ago, on the far side from the fire. They each drive the blade of their weapon as deep into the frozen soil as they can, marking four point of a small square.

“Surrender your swords and may the gods favor you.”  

Nadir gives his sword to Eerie Blonde and goes to where the ground had been marked, but she hardly registers it. She can hardly register any of it, does not want to. The entire thing smacks with a strange sense of déjà vu that leaves her anxious and uneasy.

She waits to feel him leave her side, to surrender his weapon as Nadir had done, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns to her and she looks at him in question. His eyes are dark with a thousand things he has not said, wants her to say, but now is not the time for words. So when his hand catches her neck, her waist, and pulls her against him all she can do is meet him with a gasp. 

He takes advantage of her open mouth. She can taste his conviction, his need, and she gives in to him. Her body bows to his, to his strength, and she has just as much time to respond to his releasing her as she did to his holding her.

She stumbles back on a ragged breath, mind spinning, but she still senses what this is. Nadir is a stronger opponent and this will not be the same as the _hólmganga_ she had witnessed previously. No. This fight is something entirely different and she tastes it on her lips. This kiss had been meant to speak into the silences that live between them as much as it had been a testament to those watching that she is his - and he hers - no matter what happens hereafter.

He holds her now only with his eyes as he sheds the sword at his waist, the dagger from his belt, and kneels to lay them at her feet. The wild thing is there in his eyes watching her. She imagines touching his cheek, of affirming the claim he had made, but her hands stall where they are bound before her. Then he stands once more and she feels the loss of the moment as sharp as a blade in her chest.

She watches him go towards the place marked where Nadir waits and she wants to shout after him. She wants to tell him he needn’t fight, that they needn’t answer to these men when they should be answering to her. She wants to cry that she is his, but she does not. She stays still and separate as Large Leader follows _Bjarg_ to the battlefield.

Sigfrid leaves his sword as Large Leader enters the ring and comes to her side. He does not touch her as Large Leader encants in the same unfamiliar language as he had previous time she had witnessed the ritual, but she can sense that he is there to restrain her as much as his wife Ketil had been the time previous. She wonders if she is supposed to restrain Sigfrid in the same way.

The two young men take their places.

Anna is struck again as to the breadth of Nadir. Though _Bjarg_ stands taller than his opponent by several inches, he is not nearly as thick. Anna recalls what Nadir has said that night she had stayed in his family’s home, his boasts of strength, and Anna feels new fears prickle down her spine.

Nadir holds himself as a man who relishes violence while _Bjarg_ expression is that of a man resolved to complete an unpleasant task. Both stand thick with coiled energy, waiting for the other to succumb to the mounting pressure in the air.

Nadir moves first, closing the distance between them with an explosive offensive sweep. _Bjarg_ dodges but it is a near miss. He does not have time to land a hit on the recovery as he had when fighting Gunnar. Nadir is too quick, and it is only an instant before Nadir is charging again.

His right fist glances _Bjarg_ ’s chin as his left comes in to land hard in his gut. The sound of air rushing from _Bjarg_ ’s lungs sparks heat behind her eyes and she gasps. Nadir clamps onto _Bjarg_ ’s shoulder and lands a second punch to his ribs. He is in the process of landing his third when _Bjarg_ catches the impending fist with a sweep of his own arm, breaking the path and twisting Nadir around in the process. Using his height to his advantage, _Bjarg_ circles Nadir’s neck with his arm, locking it tight, and pulls back.

Nadir goes up on his toes, face reddening instantly, broad hands clawing at _Bjarg_ ’s forearm. Anna feels her own breath come up short at the sight of the man’s struggles, at the cold anger she sees across _Bjarg_ ’s face. Nadir leverages his weight and tilts forward to break _Bjarg_ ’s hold. A ham sized fist slams into _Bjarg_ ’s thigh and he staggers back. Nadir turns and comes again with a heavy blow aimed at _Bjarg_ ’s jaw, but it does not land. _Bjarg_ dodges by ducking down and swinging a low sweeping kick to Nadir’s ankles.

The thicker man stumbles and _Bjarg_ capitalizes on the moment to again trap his opponent’s neck in the vice of his arm but at his side this time. He takes his free fist and pummels the side of Nadir’s head once, twice, before Nadir’s hand swings around _Bjarg_ ’s back and grabs his hair at the same time as his elbow lands in _Bjarg_ ’s gut.

Nadir yanks hard on _Bjarg_ ’s hair and _Bjarg_ lets out a fierce grunt.

“So this is what we come to?” She hears Nadir growl into _Bjarg_ ’s ear. “Fighting like dogs over scraps of honor?”

“You fight as a dog.” _Bjarg_ grunts through clenched teeth. “I fight as a man.”

Nadir’s reply is a hard punch to _Bjarg_ ’s ribs. _Bjarg_ ’s hand grab Nadir’s holding wrist and twists his entire body with a yell. Nadir does not lose his hold until _Bjarg_ ’s launches two sharp, brutal kicks to his gut. On the third kick _Bjarg_ releases Nadir’s wrist and sends him flying to his back on the snow. _Bjarg_ is on him in an instant, straddling his chest and pummeling Nadir’s face with blow after blow .

Anna has seen _Bjarg_ fight, has seen him break men with fists like iron, but never like this. Never under the spectatorship of so many others, never when it is so clear this is more than just about her honor, and she wants them to stop. She wants to end this madness. She fidgets and Sigfrid’s hand latches onto her arm with bruising strength to stop her before she even begins though she is sure his eyes never left his son.

 _Bjarg_ lands one final blow across Nadir’s broken face before he pushes up to stand over his opponent’s body. Nadir moans, blood pouring from both nostrils, as he turns his head in the snow. He struggles a bit to try to get up but _Bjarg_ presses a boot to Nadir’s broad chest just hard enough to keep him down.

“This ends now.” _Bjarg_ says as much to Nadir as he does the witnesses. “Whatever ill lies between us dies now in our stead.”

Nadir gargles something unintelligible and _Bjarg_ leans down a bit to try to understand. His lowered position keeps him from seeing the hidden flash of steel that slashes the air. Nadir’s dagger cuts wide and deep across the thick of _Bjarg_ ’s calf and Anna is not certain if the cry she hears is his, hers, or both. _Bjarg_ stumbles back as Nadir rolls to his side and tries to stand. _Bjarg_ stumbles, staggers, tries to put weight on his damaged leg only to have it buckle beneath him with a curse. 

He does his best to brace himself as Nadir approaches, but she fears it is not much.

She looks to Large Leader, expecting him to do something - to stop this - now that the rules have been breached, but he remains at the side immovable. His face beyond stoic. She looks to Sigfrid to find him much the same, only with a deep sadness etched into his eyes.

She looks back to the fight in time to see Nadir land the handle of his dagger across _Bjarg_ ’s temple, cracking it open, and uncovering a new well of blood. _Bjarg_ teeters, but does not fall. Instead he uses his dizzy momentum to tackle Nadir round the waist, knocking the dagger from his hand once they crash to the ground, and presses his forearm into Nadir’s throat. _Bjarg_ ’s knees pin Nadir’s arms and though the young man thrashes against the weight on his chest, the pressure at his neck, he cannot throw _Bjarg._ Not this time. After several long moments, the sickening struggle and choking cease.

 _Bjarg_ eases his arm, his knees, his body from Nadir’s. His slow motions, Anna can tell, is just as much to be certain that Nadir is conquered as it is the pain of his own wounds. _Bjarg_ looms over Nadir’s form and she can see faint rise and fall of Nadir’s chest as clearly as she can see the uneven pull of _Bjarg_ ’s. Blood from _Bjarg_ ’s temple forms rivers and tributaries down the side of his face to pool alongside the blood from the gash at the back of his head. The cut above his boot still flows as well.  His entire body seems to hang from his shoulders as if it is too much for him to carry. She can see new lines of agony carving themselves into his face.

He stands a moment before he bends to collect the dagger that had entered the fight unjustly. He throws the bloodied dagger at the feet of Large Leader some three yards away. The same crackling energy that had been present in their previous exchange comes to the foreground.

“I will not take his life though it is mine to have.” _Bjarg_ says on rough breath. “In its place I take my own to form and use as I please with no further interference.”

Large Leader’s face is resolved past expression, but Anna thinks she can see the faintest, inexplicable gloss in the corner of his brown eyes.

“So be it.” His voice is thick and gruff.

And though Anna cannot understand why, the air goes out of the hollow at that moment. Every man there stops breathing and Sigfrid’s hand drops her arm.  

Then, without another word or a look at the crowd of men, _Bjarg_ limps out of the ring leaving a trail of blood. He passes Sigfrid who goes to attend his son.

Even with his hobbled steps, bloody trail left in his wake, he makes it to her swiftly. His face is dark with pain she is only beginning to understand as he grabs her hands. He unties the ropes and pulls off her mitten. He unwinds the bandages there with trembling hands and bruising knuckles.

She thinks she should be afraid of this blood covered man with his dark eyes and ruthless ferocity, but she isn’t. She does not flinch from him, does not pull away. If anything she leans closer, wants to soothe the aches she sees so plainly etched on his features. She wants to hold him, but does not know exactly how to go about doing so.

Once her hand is unwrapped he holds it up towards the counsel of elders, towards Large Leader.

“See now the gods have favored not just me but my wife also. Let us go lest you turn their favor against you.”

Eerie Blonde steps forward then with two others. They inspect her hand, swiping at the old honey and poking at the new skin growing where the old had been burned away. Their touch does not hurt but she finds herself shrinking from it anyway.

 _Bjarg_ watches the whole of it carefully. Perspiration dots his forehead, his upper lip, and his breath comes fast and shallow. She reaches her free hand out to catch his. He takes it with a grip just a little too firm but she does not complain.

“Her wound heals well. It has not turned.” Eerie Blonde announces after inspection, and she is surprised to hear what she thinks is relief in his voice. “She speaks the truth.”

She meets Eerie Blonde’s eyes in question, but receives no answer. His gaze goes to Large Leader as he nods and suddenly Gunnar is pushed to his knees in the snow. His eyes are wide with terror.

“Ye, Gunnar son of Eluf, are found by this hollow to be guilty of attempting to rape this woman and are herenow to be an outlaw and outcast in these woods.” Large Leader pronounces but none look to him, or to Gunnar. All eyes stay on _Bjarg_ but she cannot understand why. He is not the one on trial.

 _Bjarg_ casts a cold look at Gunnar where he kneels helpless in the snow before looking to his sword where it lies at her feet and understanding begins to dawn on her. He is not the one on trial, but he is now the judge.

“No!” Anna looks to _Bjarg_. “No more blood. No more.”

She squeezes his hand, pleading with her eyes, but he looks away. He releases her hand and bends to take up his weapons. He replaces his dagger but rises with his sword. Her heart jumps to her throat. No matter what Gunnar had tried to do those weeks ago - what cowardice he had shown in the weeks after - all she can see now is a sad, small man quivering in the snow. He is not a threat. He cannot hurt her anymore and she will not have his blood shed when he has already lost so much.

She reaches a hand out and catches _Bjarg_ ’s sword arm. He stops, but his eyes stay on Gunnar where he kneels - pitiful and helpless.

“No more. Please. Let us return home where I can care for your wounds.”

His hand tightens on the handle, bruised knuckles turning white. “You ask me to spare this wretch though he tried to kill and dishonor us both?”

She can feel his body shaking. The fire of the fight plus the toll of it course through his blood. She knows her request is madness, that it makes no sense in this rough world, but no matter how she tries she cannot harden herself enough allow this killing.

“Yes.” Is all she can say, throat full, and _Bjarg_ turns his glare to her.  

“Your words are foolish. He would show neither of us such kindness.” His words are hard and fast. He steps closer to her and lowers his voice. His words brush her cheek with his nearness. “He tried to harm you, _min lille ven_. Do not ask me to forgive him that.”

“But he did not harm me. This brother never touched me.” Her heart hammers wildly at his proximity, at the power radiating off of him in waves. “Those who did are already dead and cannot ever harm me again.”

His mouth presses a hard line and she can feel him forcing down the wild thing inside himself with every bit of strength he possessed. She can see every tendon in his neck strain against it. He steps back from her with a shrug, taking his arm from her grasp, and steps towards Gunnar.

Her eyes squeeze closed. It was foolish for her to think he would stay Gunnar’s execution for her nonsensical reasons. Still she had hoped -

“Know this - outlaw or no - if our paths ever again cross there will be no words that will stay my sword from your throat.” She hears _Bjarg_ say, and her eyes open just in time to see him bring the butt of his sword down hard on the back of Gunnar’s head. The small, dark man crumples to the snow, unconscious.

 _Bjarg_ looks to Large Leader, chest held high. “He is your outlaw now. Do with him what you will.”

With that he returns to where she stands and sheaths his sword.

“It is finished.” She cannot help but notice how pale he looks, how his body still shakes. “Let us leave these wolves to their work.”

….

They bind his leg with her old bandages before they leave. He pulls them so firmly that his eyes tighten from the pain. She wipes at the cut on his forehead, his scalp, as best she can with the edge of her scarf. She knows it will leave a stain. She does not care.

He takes her wrist to still her. “Not now. We will tend it at home.”

They go a slow pace. Two of the elders she does not know follow them out to ensure they do not break any code of the sacred wood, the rest remain behind. She thinks of Gunnar and wonders what they will do with him. She thinks of Nadir - and then of Alva. Will it pain her to see her brother so battered? Will she understand the reasons? Anna smiles grimly at that thought as Alva will no doubt understand better than Anna does herself.

Questions hang in the air, but go unspoken as always.

They stop a bit over halfway to the cabin to rest. He says it is for her since she is still recovering from her fever, but she can tell from the strain on his face that he needs it more than she. Still she does not complain. The compress of bandages he had wrapped around his calf is red with blood and she does not know if it is new blood or old blood that it had soaked off of his clothes. She hopes it is old blood.

She leans back against a tree and closes her eyes, happy to help him through stillness.  

“More snow is coming.” He says and opens her eyes. He leans heavily against a tree across from her.

“When will it come?” A safe question to keep the unsafe ones at bay.

“Soon.” He looks up to the clouds with eyes of worrisome glass. “It will be deep.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can feel it in my bones.”

She does not ask him to explain further, doesn’t know how to ask further. She looks up to the sky as he does but all she sees is gray. The clouds do not speak to her the way they speak to him.

She brings her gaze back down to find him looking at her. His eyes ask her to follow him, to trust him. She does. She will.

“The pass will close. It won’t open until spring.” His tone is leading her but she does not know where. “If anyone were to want to go south they would need to make haste or else wait till spring.”

She feels it then, his leaning, but she does not flinch away. Instead she looks at him, takes in the whole of his damage, and knows that even in a palace surrounded by walls and guards she had never been as safe as she is now with this one man.

“The south has nothing for me.” She says, holding his gaze as she speaks. “Everything I need is here.”

He presses off his tree and limps forward the few steps to where she stands. She sees his intent, realizes she has been waiting for this ever since he had embraced her in the hollow, is surprised at how her body reacts to the idea of being held by him. He does not hesitate, does not ask because he knows the answer, as he takes her face in his hands.

Her back scrapes against the bark of the tree through the layers of her clothing as his weight presses into her. The pressure could have induced panic, but instead she feels herself melt into it. That is all she has a chance to register before he clamps his mouth over hers.

She can feel the swell of his need as one of his hands leaves her face to brace on the tree behind her. She is surprised to find her own need building within her with every fervent pass of his mouth over hers. Her skin grows tight. Her thoughts pop and fade like sparks from a flame and she is unable to think of anything other than this moment.

She can taste the tang of his split lip, can feel the whole of his body trembling like a leaf in the wind, and she reaches for him with gentle hands. She avoids the places where she knows he’d taken blows, clinging to his shoulders, caressing his back until he pulls back on a breath to look down at her face.

She gazes up at him, breathless, to find him frowning. “What is it?”

“My blood -” His thumb grazes her cheek and she understands.

“- is my blood.” She finishes for him, and he huffs a grin that brings attention to the lack of color in his lips. 

“We should get home.” She urges, but he looks back down at her with renewed solemnity.

“ _Logi_.” He says on a breath and he falls onto her mouth once again as if chasing the name he had just spoken. Her thoughts of going anywhere beyond this spot evaporate on a dizzy cloud. He draws back just enough to speak against her lips. “Don’t ever ask me again to not do all I can to protect us. Please -” He kisses her again, long and urgent. “Please.” 

She is about to reply by pressing her mouth back to his, uncertain when it became so crucial to have her mouth on his, when he sways out of reach. His hand fall from her face, from where the other is braced on the tree, and she opens her eyes wide just in time to see his roll to the back of his head. Then, as a mighty oak leveled, he falls to the ground without protest. 

He does not get up.

He does not move.

She chokes on a scream.


	18. Chapter 18

The world slows to a stop.

She thinks of the paintings in the palace, all moments of time frozen in one place, and she understands them now. She understands them completely because she cannot move.

She cannot call it panic or terror because it is something deeper than that, something man has not yet named.

For being such a mountain of a man, he makes little sound upon impact. The powdered snow cushions his impact, embraces him into her cold, stark comfort, but it does little to muffle the cry ripped from her throat.

She needs him to get up. She needs him to get up now, but he does not - so she falls. She will fall for him, she will always fall if it means bringing him to his feet.

Her hands go to his face, leather mittens patting his cheeks. “Bjarg,” she hears the distinct note of panic in her voice. “Bjarg!” It doubles when he does not respond.

It is then that true terror floods her system like a long dry creek in a downpour, quickly filling and escaping over the edges. She blinks back against the excess, tries to focus past the hysteria, to choke back the growing urge to shake him.

Her hands flit over him as if she presses in just the right place, brushes the proper spot on his shoulder, his arm, he would spring up like the jack-in-the-box she had as a child. The only motion he makes however is the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest. He is still breathing, a sign of life, but for how long? 

Beads of perspiration dot the pale skin of his face despite the freezing temperature mixing with his blood and smearing it further. It catches in the near week of scruff that has grown along his jaw and cakes itself. Her frantic caresses do nothing to help this. Her mittens are soaking with it and this is not helping. She is not helping. She needs to be helping.

She pulls her eyes away from his face long enough to look around their surroundings. The forest is unfamiliar - deep and wild - but she had noticed the sun on the march into the hollow. She knows now that if she reverses that then perhaps she would manage to find her way home. She also knows that finding the way back is perhaps the very least of her concerns.

She thinks of Bjarg’s reindeer, his sleigh, and she is fairly confident she could figure out how to hook it together, or at least rig together something in a way that could be used to pull him along. She could, but that means leaving him alone and helpless in the woods in the daft hope that she can find her way home - find her way back to him and she knows better than that. She will not offer him as a defenseless sacrifice to the creatures that roam between these trees, man and beast alike.

No.

She will have to move him herself, but first she will attend the cause of the halo of red blooming through the snow beneath his calf. She scrambles, awkward in her thick skirts and heavy cloak, down the length of his body and yanks the scarf from her neck. It is difficult to bend his leg in a way where she can negotiate her scarf around his wound, but she manages. With each pass she pulls it as tightly as she is able. Three times around as she fastens the ends with the best knot she can pull and she hopes it is good enough to slow the life flowing out of him.

That effort alone exhausts her. She is not recovered from her sleeping sickness, from her fever, entirely and she can feel her energy draining with each strain she puts on her body. She does not pay it heed, however. She cannot. Not when the worst of it is about to come.

She returns to the upper half of his body, his face, and cups his cheeks once more. She leans in and presses her forehead to his.

“Wake up.” She whispers. “Please. I need this of you. I need you to wake.”

A moment ago he had been kissing her. She can still taste the metal of his blood and perspiration on her mouth. So how did they end up here?

She feels his rapid breath against her skin, the slickness of his sweat against her face, but he remains unaltered. She squeezes her eyes against the hopelessness that she feels. He had carried her when she had needed him to, but she knows inside that she will struggle to return the favor. Fortunately she does not remember a day that had not been fraught with struggle, but this is a struggle unique indeed. She knows she is not strong enough, but she also knows she will try to be.

She will not fail him.

She cannot.

She stands behind his shoulders and bends. Her hands wriggle through the snow to hook beneath his armpits. She stretches and strains until she manages to lift his broad shoulders off the ground. His head curves back against her abdomen and - gods - he is heavy but she holds strong. She will not drop him.

She staggers back a step, two, and uses the her own slight weight to lever him through the snow. Each inch is a mile, and it is not long before she is winded and trembling. The muscles in her arms and the back scream for relief, but she does not stop because she does not know how to. She does not know how to do anything but survive.

That is how they find her.

She does not hear the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Her breathing is too heavy, her heart beat too thunderous, so when she strains back her neck to pull Bjarg another inch - she startles at the sight of them. Her hands slip and Bjarg slumps down her legs to her feet in an unglorified heap.

“Leave us be. You’ve taken enough already.” She hates how breathless she sounds, how small, but knows there is venom in her voice yet.

Large Leader’s face is grim beneath his thick, graying whiskers. “You will no make it home with him in that state.” His eyes are dark as they shift to where Eerie Blonde stands beside him. “He bleeds still?”

His question stabs, the answer obvious as the red trail that no doubt led the unwanted duo straight to them. Anger, hot enough to sting her eyes, boils up inside of her and she bends to pick Bjarg back up instead of clawing Large Leader’s eyes from their sockets. This is his fault, his fault and the fault of all the other blood-thirsty devils that were in the hollow. She will not tolerate his questions.

“Thank to you.” She grunts as she lifts, every muscle on fire, but still her anger burns hotter and scorches away any fear that may have clipped her tongue.

Large Leader’s mouth presses a grim line. “It was no my blade that did this, meyla.”

“But you did naught to stay the damage. Nadir may have delivered the blow, but it was your silence that made way for it.” Her voice quakes at the memory of stinging injustice. “There is no honor in you.”

Anger flashes hot and glaring in Large Leader’s eyes, but it only makes her glad. She cannot best this man physically, so she uses her words as weapons. The energy of his disgust at her insolence only feeds her strength. She is not afraid of him. She is only afraid for Bjarg.

“Ya speak on what ya canna understand.”

“I speak on blood - your mother tongue and currency.” Her arms tremble and she finished giving them the energy she needs to save for Bjarg’s care. “I am done with your weightless words. Your actions show me plainly the breed of men you are.”

With that she gives a tremendous heave and moves Bjarg and inch, two. She heaves again, increasing her gains. She will do this till she collapses, till her arms rip off at the roots. She will carry him home and she will waste no time or energy on men who have a taste for death.

Her efforts are so concentrated that when an immense mittened hand clamps her bicep it catches her by surprise. Her gaze shoots up and sees Large Leader glaring down at her. For the first moment since he appeared a shiver of fear runs down her spine, but not for herself. If she is to come to consequence for her hard words - what will become of Bjarg?

“What now?” She tries to hold onto her bravado, but her voice trembles. “Have you not done enough already?”

Sadness sinks into Large Leader’s eyes at that, but she does not understand it. Her eyes trace the deep rivers and valleys carved into his weathered skin, searching for meaning, but finds nothing.

“No.” He says then, a foreign softness creeping into the edges of his words. “I have no done enough.”

He releases her arm and she flinches, expecting retribution, but it does not come. Instead Large Leader stoops to one knee and takes Bjarg’s wrist in hand. He hooks one massive shoulder down low to the ground and with a concerted grunt he pulls. Bjarg’s frame lurches from her grip as he is dragged up over the broad shoulders of the older man. Large Leader wraps Bjarg around his neck like a prize kill and with a growl of breath rises to his feet. Despite his age and Bjarg’s size - the action does not seem to strain him and Anna is too stunned at the display to speak for a moment.

“Trygve and I will see ya both delivered home.” He nods to Eerie Blonde where he stands silently watching the whole of the proceedings unfold and Anna assigns the name to him. Trygve. She realizes then that she knows so few names, never asks for them, in hopes that no one will become curious for hers.

Anna looks back to where Bjarg is draped, heavy and seemingly without life, and remembers his charge and request in the hollow: A life to form and shape as he saw fit with no interference. She does not understand the wholeness of his request, but she wonders what he would say if he were awake. Is this interference? It may be, but it is clear that she has little room to argue. She can not so easily divest Large Leader of Bjarg as he did with her.

Instead she squares sore shoulders and summons any bit of royal authority she can muster. “You know the way.”

Large Leader grunts and turns on a step. Anna falls into step behind him. She can sense Trygve behind her, but she does not hear his steps. She does not dwell on that idea. Instead she keeps her eyes on the drops of blood littering the path in front of her, she watches for blood. His blood. Hers.

What if he never wakes?

She knows the answer.

She will run.

She will have no promises to stop her, but somehow the idea brings her breath up short. Her promises to him die only if he does and that is not something she is prepared to face. Whenever she had pictured running, she had always left him to a brighter path. To live in a world where he does not exist, to leave and know that she alone will mourn him, had never crossed her mind.

Until now.

Until this path where she follows his blood.

Large Leader’s steps are solid and sure. His pace is steady, and before the hour is out they break into the clearing that holds their home. She has not cried yet, not one tear, but sight of the humble cabin with its sod roof floods her eyes with emotion.

This is home. She knows it now, feels it, can almost laugh at the idea that she is just now realizing this when it could be stripped away from her at any moment.

The men stop in front of the door. She opens it. They all step inside. It is unchanged from the way they had left it only a few short hours before, the fire still burning, but somehow everything is different.

Large Leader takes Bjarg to the bed and deposits him there. Anna thinks it strange to see him laying on the bed that had become hers, stranger still with the company. She does not have time to linger on the strangeness because in that moment for Trygve draws his sword.

She freezes in horror. How had she been so foolish? They would not murder them in the woods, not in the open where others could see, but they would do so now. She backs away, hand going to her pocket where her dagger dwells and grasps the handle. She yanks it forth, tearing her skirt, the same moment as Trygve strides past her and plunges the end of his blade into the hot coals of her hearth.

She blinks, breath coming in hard pants, and meets Trygve’s small, dark eyes in disbelief. If his sword was not meant for attack, then…?

“He bleeds, still.” Trygve says, and she still does not understand. “What have ya as far as spirits?”

She keeps her dagger in hand, not moving from her place. “Ale. Akvavit.”

“Akvavit will do.” Trygve says and she sees Large Leader nod out of the corner of her eye.

“For what purpose?”

Trygve brows crease as he looks at her as though she is the one who is difficult to understand, as if she were the one demanding things from his home without explanation.

“To balance the scales.” His sharp, dark eyes narrow - examining her. “Do ya no believe in restitution where yer from?”

She does not appreciate his scrutiny, the way he looks at her like something to be figured out. She much prefers dismissal and scorn to curiosity. She wants Ketil’s blustering, Alva’s amusement, Bjarg’s silence - not Trygve’s interest.

“Where I’m from we believe in solving problems without blows.” She raises her chin to hide her apprehension. She had once read that predators can smell fear and she is fairly certain the concept applies here as well.

Trygve almost smiles at her show, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Where yer from - do they let men die in their beds to spite the ones who carried them?”

She looks to where Bjarg lies. Even with the warm light of the half dead fire his skin is sallow and while she does not trust these men, cannot imagine what it would mean to trust these men, she will do anything to save Bjarg. Anything. Even trust the untrustable.

She looks from Trygve to Large Leader to Bjarg and she hopes against all hope that this is the right thing.

“The akvavit is in the jugs on the top shelf there.” She points with her blade to the pantry shelves in the corner at the foot of the bed. She knows her weapon brings no fear to these men, but it brings comfort to her and that is enough.

Trygve follows her direction. She watches his white blonde hair as he pulls down the specified pottery and thinks of Elsa. What would she say if she could see her sister now? What would she do if she knew that her sister had chosen this life instead of one of comfort and confinement? What would she say if she knew that Anna had not chosen her?

The thought alone is enough to bring Anna to her knees, but she remains standing. This choice, this life, will not break her. She will not allow it.

Trygve nods to the shelves on the opposing wall and Large Leader seems to know what he is indicating. Seeing the grizzled man, the lithe blonde linger in spaces that had only ever been hers and Bjarg’s gives her pause. It feels wrong and perhaps there is a benefit to Bjarg being unconscious as she grows more and more certain that he would not approve of any of this.

Large Leader takes a large shallow bowl from the shelf, one that she has used for cleaning vegetables fresh from the garden, and the stack of dish rags she kept there and meets Trygve by the bed. She watches, uncertain, from her place across the room. They twist and turn Bjarg’s head as he lays at an awkward angle, unable to aid or resist them.

She watches as Large Leader maneuvers Bjarg’s head over the bowl off the side of the bed in such a way that Trygve is able to pour the akvavit over the place that Nadir’s stone had broken. The bloody runoff catches in the bowl where Large Leader had placed it on the ground. Trygve’s hands are slim and strangely elegant as they move around Bjarg’s wound, cleaning it with both rag and akvavit, as Large Leader holds Bjarg in a way that benefits his partner.

She watches as the two rough men work in tandem in a way that bespeaks tradition, partnership. They have done this before, but she is not certain that is a comfort. For all she has grown accustomed to this hard world there are a dozen things she does not understand.

When they have pour what seems to be the entire contents of the jug over Bjarg’s head, they replace him on the bed. Large Leader takes the bowl of ruined akvavit to the door and tosses it to the snow as Trygve wraps Bjarg’s wet head in cloth. When Large Leader rejoins him, they turn Bjarg so that he lays on his back down the length of the bed instead of being skewed off the side. When she sees him this way, she can almost pretend that he is just sleeping.

Trygve is already fumbling with the binding around the wound on Bjarg’s calf, her scarf and bandages, and she wants to stop him. She wants to tell them to leave and not return. She wants to scream at them forever for subscribing to whatever idiocy that had allowed this to come to pass.

“For this we will require yer hands.” It is Large Leader who speaks something not quite a request, not quite a demand, but she still feels a deep sense of unease at crossing the distance between them.

Instead she curls back her top lip, shows her teeth, and asks: “Why?”

She feels power in the question, in the ability to ask it, because while she would do anything to come to Bjarg’s aid she will not simply jump because these men ask her to.

“His bleeding will finish him.” Large Leader says, expression contracting. “I nary want that more than ya do.”

She wants to tell him that he has no right telling her what she wants. She wants to tell him exactly what she does want, how she wishes things could be different, how she is so sick of secrets that she could vomit - but instead she thinks of Alva and what she would do. She considers the steadfast duty she has been shown in relation to this world. To refuse will give him an advantage - would give him reason to question the legitimacy of her binding to Bjarg more than she senses he already does. She will not give him that pleasure. She will not allow him a single reason to laud over her, over them. She will bite and claw and fight against this man with every breath in her lungs, but not if it cost Bjarg a single one of his.

“I care not what you want.” She says with every trembling muscle in her body. “But I will help where I am needed to save him.”

Trygve works while they speak. She sees him push up the leg of Bjarg’s pants to his knee. A deep, seeping wound cut through the thick of his calf, and the sight of it chokes her. Anna realizes then that she has never seen any part of Bjarg’s legs, had never imagined she would, had never thought it would be in this circumstance -

“What would you have me do?” She fixates on the wound, the deep, welling gash that he took for fighting fair, and she can do that too. She can fight fair against the wolves in their home no matter how it cuts at her.

“Hold down his shoulders.” Trygve says.

“If he wakes he will prefer your face to mine.” Large Leader says as he assumes his position at the foot of the bed and takes Bjarg’s ankles in hand.

“And you,” she address Trygve, his strange eyes seeing everything. “What are you to do?”

Trygve looks to where his sword sits in the fire, and Anna understands.

“Oh,” is all she can muster.

Her legs move before her mind bids them, compelled by duty, her brain shutting down as she is unable to consider what comes next. When she reaches them she climbs up on the bed and sits on her knees behind Bjarg’s head. She lays her dagger on one side of him, unable to be bothered to replace it in her torn pocket, and she sees both men track it with their eyes.

“Where did you get that?” Large Leader demands, brow furrowed as he meets her gaze over the length of Bjarg’s body. She is taken aback by the black intensity of his stare.

“It was given to me.” Her hand goes back to the handle instinctively, taking it back in her grip. “He gave it to me.”

Large Leader’s eyes took a dangerous glint. “Did he tell ya from where he received that blade?”

She can feel the energy around them tingle and spark with the weight of his question. She can feel how he is pushing, leaning, but that is not his place.

“What does it matter? It is mine now.” She returns with a question as she maneuvers as she takes the extra effort to replace it in her pocket.

The vehemence in Large Leader’s expression makes her wish she had just done that in the first place.

“Tread lightly, meyla.” He says. “You stand on thin ice.”

She realizes in that moment that she hate him, this Large Leader. She hates him for what she has suffered at his hand, what Bjarg has suffered, and his imperious nature. She hates him for not balancing the scales the moment Nadir produced a knife. She hates him because she knows Bjarg hates him, and that alone is enough reason to hate him in her own stead. So she pulls a deep breath to steady her rattling heart, squares her shoulders, and draws on as much of her royal pedigree as she can.

“I tread where I will. I stand where I want.” She feels her voice try to waver, but she holds it steady. “And where I go I go with honor.”

Large Leader’s face turns a vicious shade of red at her defiance but somewhere inside she accepts it. If Bjarg is to die this day, she may as well go too. It is then that she realizes she fears a life without him more than she fears having no life and at all and that revelation alone sends ice and fire through her entire body.

Someone clears a throat and she remembers Trygve in that moment. She blinks, expanding her world again past the narrow spectrum of Bjarg and Large Leader to the reality in which the live in that moment.

“It is time.” Trygve says, and Large Leader jerks a nod. His glower does not lessen, does not move its focus from her face, but his thick hands grab Bjarg’s ankles and she understands her role.

She presses the flats of her hands against Bjarg’s shoulders where he lies. His head stays nestled in her skirts between her thighs and she cradles it there with the slightest of pressure. His soaked hair has seeped through the towels, dampening her skirts, but she does not mind. All that matters is that he is here, and close, and alive. All that matters is that he stays that way.

She sees Trygve take his sword from the fire, wrapping his hand in cloth before he grips the handle, and come to the bedside. She sucks in a breath, unprepared for this.

The flat of his blade smokes from the heat and the idea of it touching Bjarg is unthinkable. She turns her gaze to his pale face instead. It is still smeared with blood and grime. The scruff along his jawline takes on strange shades of blush and coral. If she had a free hand, a spare moment, she would clean it away. No man deserved to battle death with a dirty face, and yet he is doing just that.

Fight. She thinks, willing him to hear her silent plea. Fight your way back to me.

“Hold tight.” Trygve warns in his own tight voiced way, like it costs him something each time he speaks a word, and Anna presses down harder.

She does not watch. Cannot. She hears Trygve move, hears a disgusting sizzle, smells the sickening sweet char of burning flesh and her stomach turns. She has smelled this before coming from her own body. These men had laid upon her the same curse only days before and she cannot bear the smell without her own body recoiling.

Beneath her palms, she feels him shift. A choked groan gurgles out of his throat. His eyelids flutter and her heart leaps in mingled joy and panic at the sight.

“He wakes!” She looks up frantically at Large Leader, doing her best to avoid watching Trygve work. “He wakes.”

“Hold steady.” Large Leader says, his broad shoulders locking and she knows what she must do but does not know how she will do it.

She looks down at Bjarg’s face and pushes down hard on his shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Trygve shift, the smell of burning intensifying, and Bjarg’s eyes fly open. His pupils are black holes, blown out and wild, sucking her in - swallowing her whole - and she can feel his pain. She can taste it in her mouth as she feels every muscle beneath her hands turn to iron and agony.

“Hold him!” Large Leader’s voice sounds far away, and she does her best, but she is falling headfirst into his gaze.

She has never seen this before - the fullness of his suffering - and it weakens her. Her presence in his world caused this, and her arms shake. There is a clang of metal against stone and she thinks it may be over, that she perhaps this trial has passed, but she is wrong. She looks up in time to see Large Leader pull Bjarg’s leg to the side, for Trygve take the akvavit, and pour it over the seared wound.

A thick, guttural cry rips from Bjarg’s chest as his spine snaps tight, neck whipping back, his body bowed against the pain. Each line of his face is pulled hard under unrelenting torment. She wants to smooth those lines, to push back the hair matted to his forehead, but she doesn’t dare because he begins to thrash. She knows that if he had been at full strength there would be no hope of restraining him, but in his weakened, pain-riddled state, they manage to keep him still enough for Trygve to finish.

“Easy.” She finds herself whispering, pleading. “Lay easy, now,” but she can see the panic in his eyes - the confusion - and there is no use.

It is not until Trygve binds one of her dish cloths around his work and he is released that his struggles lessen. Bjarg lays still, chest rising and falling on rough, deep breaths, and she knows the pain is still there despite the treatment being finished. Her hands shake as they come off of his shoulders to touch his face. She ghosts the tips of her fingers across his brow, along his cheekbones, careful to not press into and bruise or cut.

“It’s over now.” She whispers, cradling his face in her hands, between her knees. “They have finished.”

His eyes come open again as she speaks, and the darkness there is different this time. It is not from pain - but from anger. The anger, however, is not directed at her. Her eyes go up to where Trygve and Large Leader stay at the foot of the bed setting right the items they’d implemented.

Bjarg struggles up to sit, hissing breath in through his teeth, before she can stop him - help him. The cloth that had wrapped his head falls away onto her lap. She grasps it and tucks it into her waistband.

She cannot see his face, but she knows what she would see if she could.

“Get out.” Bjarg rasps, voice besotted with strain and confusion, body wavering a bit with the effort to stay sitting up. “You are not welcome here.”

“There was a demand for balance.” Large Leader’s voice takes a hard edge. “The demand has been met.”

Bjarg snorts. “This balances nothing.”

“Trygve is witness. We righted the wrongs done to ya in the sacred woods and hollow.”

“Better to have let me die.” Bjarg shakes, his body exhausted and taxed beyond itself. “Better to die than to owe you a single breath.”

“Ya owe me every breath, mǫgr.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“If I hadn’t come - ya two would still be in the woods. Ya frozen to death. Her - lost, alone.” Large Leader points a finger towards her and she looks away, uncomfortable. “Think of yer wife.”

“As you thought of yours?” Bjarg’s words are strong and scathing even as she can see him struggle to remain sitting upright. “Do not come into my home and speak of wives, hrafnasueltir.”

She’d read that word before in her studies of the old tongue. Hrafnasueltir - a raven starver, but she never could have understood the weight of it until she sees it thrown. Large Leader practically staggers at the curse - face turning near purple with rage - and Anna thinks he may kill them both.

Large Leader’s voice is low and dark. “The hollow demands justice - balance.”

“It demands suffering and blood and you bow to it as the coward you are.” She can hear the strain in Bjarg’s words, his exhaustion and resolve to fight against it. “But I will not.”

“Kristoff -” Large Leader starts and she thinks how strange it is to hear his given name, how peculiar when she has come to think of him by another name.

“Out.” He stops the older man. “Whatever you have to say I will not hear it. My weregild is my honor, my right, to charge you now to leave my home without another word.”

Large Leader looks as if he has more to say, but Trygve places a hand on his arm as if to warn him against continuing. They all hold for a moment, vehemency potent in the air, and she can feel the poison of it burn her lungs. Then, on a giant inhale as if he needs to hold the hatred in the air inside of himself, Large Leader turns and leaves. Trygve follows without so much as a look behind.

Once they are gone, Bjarg nearly collapses back onto the bed. His entire frame shudders. She is up like a shot, fetching pelts and blankets to cover him. She goes to the door and closes, latches, and bars it - anything to keep the cold air at bay. She stokes the fire till it blazes hot enough to make her sweat. She takes a cup and fills it with water from the barrel and brings it to him to drink. He sits up just enough that she is able to help him take deep, thirsty swallows. He coughs a bit, but finishes it all before falling back on the bed with a sigh.

She sets aside the cup and takes the cloth that had been tied to his head from her waistband. It is damp still from akvavit and she raises it to his face. With slow, gentle drags she wipes his face. She cannot quite rid his beard from the stains of blood and grime, but by the time she is finished he is much improved.

With fingers as delicate as butterfly wings, she presses his hair back from his forehead. She has never touched his hair before, never felt the thickness of each strand against her fingers, and she wishes she could wash it for him as she had washed his face. If they were in the palace she would have them prepare a bath for him after the doctor had treated him. She would dismiss the servants after the water was delivered and help him herself. She’d use the soap her father had used in his washing - the spiced kind that left him smelling warm and exotic - and she would scrub every last dreg of effort and misery from his locks. She would use the finest linens to dry his hair and combed it through with balm, but they are not at the palace. They are in their home, and somehow despite its lack of resource she knows it is better.

He turns his face to look at her.

“Rest.” She strokes her hand along the side of his face. He leans into it. “You have done enough today.”

“I am cold.” His eyes are unfocused and glassy - the skin of his face clammy.

“Another pelt then. A blanket.” She turns to fetch them when his voice stops her.

“No.”

She looks back to him. “What then?”

“Come to me.” His voice is low and far away, already halfway returned to that place the mind goes in sleep, and though she does not understand the fullness of his comment she feels her body grow flustered.

“How? How would you have me?” She asks, heart in her throat.

“Here,” he sidles his body over with obvious effort, making room, turning so his cut leg is on top and opening his arms. “Here is how I will have you.”

His eyes are still closed. She knows he is delirious from his wounds, from the toll his body took on this day, but she remembers how he kissed her in the hollow - on the path - and she thinks perhaps this is more than the delirium. She thinks, perhaps, because of this she should not indulge him - that it will mean too much. She thinks, perhaps, to do so would be cruel and unfair to take advantage of his confusion but then his eyes open just a fraction and meet hers.

“Please.” Is all he says, and that is all it takes.

There are things to accomplish. She should check the animals, stoke the fire, cook something warm and sustaining for them to eat, clean bandages, find a way to recreate the healing paste he had made to mend her hand, but all of that fades to nothing in the light of his request. Carefully, oh so carefully, she climbs into this bed, her bed that has always been his. It is not wide enough for the two of them to lay shoulder to shoulder so she hesitantly climbs beneath the blankets and curls her body on its side as he has done - facing away.

His arm loops her waist then and pulls her tight against his frame. In an instant she is reminded of the ride to Arendelle not two week before and how he’d held her while they slept though this is different. She gasps to feel his face press into the skin of her neck, to feel his breath tingle across her sensitive skin, but she does not resist. Instead she melts into it, allowing it - not knowing when it will be allowed again - and lets her heat melt into him this time.

She will warm him.

She will do what she can to keep him safe.

Because, she begins to realize as she feels the rhythm of his breath against her back, her neck that, she may love him and she does not know what else to do.


	19. Chapter 19

He sleeps. She does not. Her body and mind are too confused to rest. It is near midday but it could be the middle of the night for all she knew. Her five day slumber has left her as confused as the way this man, her husband, holds her now.

Is it for comfort, she wonders? If so, comfort against what: the cold or to quiet his worries that she will run yet again while he is incapable of pursuit? She considers it as she lays there. She could escape before the next snow falls. By the time he is able to track her - her trail will be long buried. She knows the area better now, has her bearings, if she can make it to the pass before it closes -

He shifts closer in sleep, arm tightening around her waist, and she feels the constriction mirror in her chest.

Is this love? She is uncertain. Love has never been something plain and easy in her life. She had loved her parents, her sister, but had known better than to expect anything in return.

 _The south has nothing for me_. She had said. _Everything I need is here._

It had not been a lie, but though the north is more a home than anything she has ever experienced it can hold nothing for her either. It is too dangerous for her, for him, and if this is love - well. She does not know exactly what that means, but she is fairly certain it means not putting your loved one in the direct line of potential downfall.

She wants to stay.

She needs to leave.

Her chest squeezes once more in an aching tightness she knows will not fade with time. No matter where she is, where she goes, whatever she decides, whenever she thinks of him she will feel this exquisite tension. She will feel the the tug of his heart where it is bound to hers with every step, every beat, every breath until she dies.

She could take him with her. They could run together, but how to explain the shadows that loom around her every corner without destroying what they have? How can she compel him without compromising him? He cannot know who she is. That she knows, but also they cannot stay here forever.

But perhaps until the spring…. The idea is comforting and for the first time in her life she hopes for a long, bitter winter.

She will be his winter bird, staying through the darkness and the cold to bring him a promise of something more, and when the thaws come she will fly with him alongside her. She has the entire season to devise a plan.

The idea brings her peace.

She settles into his arms, her nest for this season, and thinks as she drifts away how funny it is to let love bloom in such a season of death.

….

She wakes when he stirs. The fire is low. She thinks perhaps he is cold and begins to roll from his grasp to revive the fire but his arm stays her. She turns head over her shoulder to see him watching her. He is close enough that she can feel the breath of his mouth ruffle the short hairs on her neck.

“You’re awake.” She says the obvious, unable to think past her thundering heart at his proximity. She remembers a similar conversation not more than a day ago

“Yes.” He says, putting pressure on her hip and turning her towards him. She allows her body to follow through the motion with no resistance till she is face to face with him - only inches separating them

“You must be in pain.” She takes in the planes of his face, the mottled bruises forming and bloodstains she had not quite managed to clean off. “Tell me what to fetch, how to prepare it, and I will for you.”

She wants to stroke his brow. She wants to smooth away the matted hair and rust but she keeps her hands clasped at her breast.

“The pain will pass.” She feels his hand spread across her back, keeping her close as his eyes scour her features. “I just needed to see your face. I needed to see with my own eyes that you were here and unharmed.”

She feels a flush rise from her center at his words at the same time as niggling worry. His skin is still so pale beneath his roughness. The depth of his eyes is clouded by the injuries he has sustained. She knows if she touches his face she will encounter the clammy heat of fever.

“I am here. I am well.” She casts her eyes downward, uncertain how to compensate for the feelings welling up within her at his nearness - the blistering heat that compels her to move even closer.

“You are here.” She notices a wonder in his tone previously unheard.  “I do not know why you are here.”

Her hands leave her chest and press to his. Her burned hand strains against the thickened flesh of her scarred palm. She does this as much to ensure her distance as his comfort. He is solid beneath her touch. The leather of his _kofte_ is soft and her breath hitches at the mix of sensations.

She thinks of revealing her plan for migration - the extent of her feelings - the intensity of the tattoo that her heart pounds into her every breath - but she won’t. It is not the proper time.

Instead: “I am here. I am here with you.”

She sees the wash of confusion and relief across his broad features and she is reminded of the previous time she observed him this closely in the cave. His freckles are more prominent now than ever and she can easily count them all. She can easily lean in and kiss him. She doesn’t.

“You are,” his voice holds a note of disbelief. “You are here with me. But why?”

She stares at his mouth as he speaks. She does not mean to, but cannot help it. The shape of his question pulls his mouth into an unfamiliar curl.

“You need rest.” The directness of his inquiry leaves her flustered and she deflects accordingly. “You need to eat. Let me make you something.”

His expression darkens at her evasion. “I am not hungry.”

“Surely you are.” She continues to steer the topic away from the question. “Surely there is something that you want.”

“Yes. There is.” He says but she can tell from his expression all too well that food is not the subject. Her cheeks flame anew. “I want to know why you are here.”

It is not a question this time but it demands an answer.  She does not know how to say what he needs to hear.

“You are unwell.” She presses against his chest but he does not release her. She did not expect him to, did not want him to. “Your mind is troubled.”

“And you can ease it.” His eyes are pleading, almost frenzied. “You are here. Trygve and Magni spoke to you but you stayed.”

Magni - Large Leader - one in the same. Still she does not understand what could have been said that would compel her to leave

“Of course I stayed.” She can feel his heart hammering beneath her palms, mirroring her own.

“But why?”

His eyes are wide and watchful even as they are troubled with pain and she has to look away. The urgency is overwhelming. She squirms in his hold, flattened palms clenching at his chest as she fights against the devastatingly strong impulse she has to run. She knows now what he wants to hear, knows that he has read it on her glass face, but she cannot form the words to speak. It is too much.

“Because, you oaf,” she can hear the quaver in her voice even as she struggles to remain composure - her insult soft and unable to harm. “I am your wife. No word of man can change that.”

It is not precisely what he wants, but it is all she can give. She continues to squirm - wanting to be free, needing to be close. It had been so much simpler when they slept, when her back had been to his face and she could not feel the burn of his gaze sweep her expression. His silence in the face of her answer offers no comfort either. The imbalance between them brought forth by his questions leaves her feeling shaky and troubled. Unbearable energy swells beneath her skin and she needs to move away from him, needs to gain perspective.

“Let me go so I can tend to your needs.” Her fists press his chest, and he releases his hold around her back but only to bring his hand up to catch behind her neck.

She looks up just in time to see him close the distance between their faces, to feel his mouth claim hers. She stiffens on a breath even as her lips soften to accommodate his. Her eyes fall shut. The fists at his chest open only to clamp into the leather of his _kofte -_ keeping him close. His mouth opens over hers, wide and fervent, and she thinks of blood.

She remembers his blood on linen sheets, of his blood in the snow, of his blood on her face - and she thinks of her own needs. She remembers that without her - his blood would have not been shed in this way. She thinks of limits and what colors they take. She thinks of his limits are all the color red: blood, desire. Hers are all the color blue: fear, pain. Red and blue: the colors of the veins in her wrist. Red and blue: the colors you mix to make royalty.

He shifts closer and derails her thoughts. His body is longer, larger, than hers in every way. The press of it against her could terrify, but instead she feels a sort of sanctuary in his embrace. The hand in her hair, behind her neck, slides down her arm, to her back and draws her against him. They lay on their sides, pressed together at every point, but it is still not enough. She can sense the desire for more reverberate in the imperceptible space between them.

She thinks to turn and haul him atop her and simply let his weight crush her into blissful oblivion. She thinks maybe if she cannot breathe she will not be able to consider the implications of breath, of living. She will fade away and there will be nothing but him and her and the crescendo she feels building within.

He pulls back before she can instigate her endeavor. Her eyes open to find his clamped shut, body trembling in her grip. The sallow tone of his cheeks raises alarm. His needs, hers, have taxed him beyond himself.

“You are my wife.” His breath is short again, too rapid and shallow even for pleasure. “You are my wife.”

He opens his eyes long enough for her to see that a new dullness has entered there. Whatever bright moment of lucidity had struck in his tormented body it fades now to yield to his damage.

“I am.” Tears heat the backs of her eyes. “I am.”

He resists the drooping of his lids as if he is fighting against his fate, but he does not win. His hand goes limp against her back and she knows the sleep of injury has sucked him back into its depths. She rests her forehead against his.

“I am your wife. I will protect you as you have protected me.”

She wraps an arm around him and holds him close as they both sleep in a bed she had never imagined sharing.

….

There are no windows in the cabin, a fact she laments inwardly but understands now. The cost of glass and the impracticality of it to withstand the heat of summer or the cold of winter is something she never considered in the palace. Thus when she wakes again, pressed up against him in the cradle of his arms, she has no easy way of knowing if it is night or day. All she knows is that his wounds, his body, needs attention that she cannot provide by sleeping alongside him.

She manages to extract herself from his hold inch by inch until she is out of the bed and free.

He is a large man, but as she surveys him on the bed she has occupied now for months, she sees him for what he truly is. Despite his size he is a man reduced and controlled by things she cannot understand. The words she has heard spoken of him have never directly addressed his standard or character - only the implications of his origin. It is as if no one cared to measure his worth by anything but his birth, and an arrow of sympathy pierces her at that realization. She knows that birthright all too well.

She remembers the way Large Leader, Magni as she knows now, had interrogated her after the blade _Bjarg_ had bestowed upon her. Magni’s interest had gone far beyond general curiosity and she knows now to keep the blade concealed unless the circumstances were beyond dire. Still…. What had _Bjarg_ thought that Magni and Trygve would say to make her leave? What secrets had he hidden in their mutual silence that he found so offensive about himself that he had never disclosed?

She cannot ask these things despite the fact that he has pressed up against her walls with a persistence she could only help but admire. She cannot ask these things because he does not wake. If he had been in any state to waken - he would have at her movement. She is not graceful no matter the efforts she puts forth to keep him resting. A part of her, a selfish part, desires him wake and unearth what he has buried and lay it in front of her.

She has admitted weakness in claiming him again as her helpmate. She cannot help but greedily want the same confirmation of vulnerability.

She does not wake him though, not even in the long minutes it takes for her to restore and establish a fire worthy to warm the small space. She labors till sweat trickles down her spine beneath her clothes. It is only when she is satisfied that the heat is a sufficient replacement for her own warmth against him that she heads out of doors.

She does not linger to watch the way the light of the flames dance over his face. She does not allow her feelings to dictate her course of actions. There are things to be done and he needs her now to be as strong and reliable as he has been for her.

She tries to recall all the elements he had gathered for the healing paste that had righted her hands. There had been clay, and calendula, and licorice root, but the remaining ingredients escape her - wash away on the memory of another kiss. She blushes at the thought, at the way he had held her in the bed just now, and tries to focus. She hopes she can remember enough to aid him.

The sky is gray with morning light and she thinks that fortunate. She can restart her waking existence to the tempers of the universe. Her steps towards the shed are bolder than she feels. There is so much that _Bjarg_ does every day that she does not know to do, has never been shown. She hopes she will be an adequate surrogate until his revival on top of her duty to care for him.

It is a bitter morning. The cold bites into her face as she crosses the few feet from the house to the shed. She is greeted by the bray of a hungry reindeer and the squawk of half a dozen unsatisfied chickens. Guilt rises in her chest. _Bjarg_ never would have let these animals go unattended.

She lights the lantern by the door and head to work. She goes first to feed the creatures and then grabs to pitchfork she had first been taught to use those several months to go. Sven’s stall needs mucking.

She finds the procedure to not be nearly the trial it had been the first time. It requires effort, but without the strain of broken ribs and with the strength added to her over days of intention she finds herself not only surviving the circumstances but succeeding at them. By the time she has mucked out the reindeer’s stall she is sweating despite the cold. The feed she had given him and the chickens is mostly gone now.

“Here you go.” She says as she offers the animals extra, restitution for previous inadequacies, when she hears the door open.

He presses a shoulder into the door frame, face as white as the world outside, and her heart leaps at the sight.

“You should be abed.” Her mind races at the unexpected sight of him. “You should not be up.”

“There are things to be done.” He says with no enthusiasm. If he had not been bolstered by the solidity of the door jam she knows he would falter.

“I am doing them. What you must do is rest - recover.”

He scoffs a laugh. “There is no recovery for the likes of me.”

She does not understand, is too alarmed to consider asking for an answer.

“You are unwell. Tell me what I must bring to aid you.” She tries to not look to where his pant leg has crusted over the boot - hard with blood - but still notices he puts no weight upon it.

“I will fetch what I need.”

“But I am here to help you.”

“You do not know what is needed.

Anger flares at his indifference.

“Then tell me, you stubborn man!”

If he had not been braced by the structure of the shed he may have wavered, but he stays steady. She can see the sweat of effort bead his forehead, his nose, his cheeks just in the endeavor of standing. For a moment she thinks he will do nothing beyond stand there and stare at her, arms crossed hard over his chest.

Then: “Root of comfrey, garlic, clay dust and calendula.”

She begins her search immediately. The shed is primarily used for the storage of barrels of ale and the animals, but she is capable of searching for the necessary elements to prepare the aid to his healing. She finds the proper jars of dried plants, his mortar and pestle, and is rummaging for the bricks of clay she would break and grind as the base of the paste when she notices something new. If she had not looked back in the shadowy corner she would have missed it entirely, but now it is all she can see. She sets her things aside on a nearby shelf and goes to investigate.

There, in the shadows, draped to cover something she finds a tapestry so intricate and fine she is transported back to the palace for a breath. It is a rich mix of reds, blues, and yellows so bright they almost shimmer all expertly twined together to create shapes of trees and mountains, rivers and valleys. Anna is so taken with the beauty of it she can hardly care for whatever lays hidden beneath it.

“I have never seen this before.” She runs reverent fingertips along the design.

“It has not been meant to be seen.”

Questions of why die in her throat as she lifts it with careful hands to admire it more closely only to find another work of painstaking craftsmanship lying beneath it.

It is a large chest made of wood and hinged with leather. Across the top is etched an intricate scroll work that looks like ribbons have been woven into the surface, bending at sharp right angles, to form a sort of complex diamond. She knows this symbol, had studied it in ancient traditions at the palace. It is _Yggdrasil:_ the world tree of pagan tradition, but it is incomplete. The center is unfinished, left smooth and bare, and she wonders.

“What is this?” She motions towards the chest, the inscription, not understanding just what she sees.

“I made it for you. It is yours.” He explains the meaning of the chest, but not the carving. “I realized that if you were - if you are to - if you stay - you should have your own place for to hold your belongings.”

The way he stumbles over his words reminds her of earlier times. Of all the times he tried to explain himself without revealing anything. Of all the things that still go unspoken between the two of them.

She kneels before the box. The heavy tapestry rests on her lap. She runs her hands over the carved surface of the wooden lid sealed smooth with bee’s wax until her fingers land on the untouched center.

“There is nothing here.” She looks over her shoulder to where he stands, speaking in their learned language of asking questions through statements. “It is unfinished.”

He holds her gaze. “That is where I will carve your name. I will carve your name there.”

The conviction in his voice sends sparks down her spine and she knows he is just waiting for her to give him that truth. He is waiting and will wait till she is prepared, but he will also lean. He will lean and lean and lean and she feels the need to lean in return.

“And this?” She holds up the tapestry for his inspection as well as hers. It tumbles open further and she recognizes Arendelle in the scene. The weaver had captured Arendelle in their threads. Her hands shake. “Did you make this as well?”

She lowers it to her lap and turns where she sits to look at him. If possible he looks even paler than before.

He shakes his head. “That is my mother’s work.”

Any question she had of why the beautiful piece is not showcased on his walls, why it is hidden in shadows, is answered in that one sentence.

“She was a master weaver.” She says, certain.

“No.”

“But she must be. To command such a talent - to create such beauty -”

“My mother was many things but she was not a weaver.”

She stops short at that. His low tone makes it evident that he is not interested in elaborating on the things his mother was. She remembers Ketil’s warning, of Alva’s cryptic suggestion: _Ask him about his mother_. She feels bold questions burning on her tongue, but only one tumbles from her lips.

“What was your mother’s name?”

It is a simple question, but nothing about it is simple.

She feels his entire body - his entire spirit - go cold though he does not move. She knows she should not have asked, but she has just as much right to lean as he does. She has much right to ask questions as he does - even if his are not phrased as explicitly.

She expects him to bluster.

She expects him to limp out, to disappear, as their tradition dictates, but he remains.

He stands instead with clenched fists and jaw, looking at her with an enigmatic stare.

After a long silence she expects no answer and it is better that way. She breaks from his gaze to return her attention to the beautiful chest he has built for her, the complexity of the tapestry on her lap. Her fingers trace the dips and peaks of his carvings and though she wants it - she is startled by the sound of his reply.

“Ragna.” He says on a harsh breath. “My mother was called Ragna.”

The words seize her body and she freezes.

That was the name he had given her so many months ago. The implication of it swells and crashes upon the shores of her conscious. Of all the things he had given her; his word, his protection, his home; she knows this is the most precious gift. Even in this though, she knows he is not demanding compensation from her. He gives this because he wants her to have it. The ring on her finger burns.

“That is a beautiful name.” She presses her palm against the blank space, her own name burning her tongue.

She knows if she looks at him the sight of him will unravel truth she cannot feed him. He is braver than she is in every respect. He gives when she only takes and she wonders what it would feel like to upset that balance, but she cannot create compel her mouth to speak her name. It is a simple name. It is not difficult to speak, but still it chokes her.

“I’ll move it to the house when you tell me you want it.” He says as if he would carry it for her now if she asked, as if he could overcome his limitations just by willing it.

She knows it is not that simple: his healing, her speaking.

He must sense her hesitation, her discomfort, because he does not wait for her to break the silence. “I’ll heat water and prepare the bandages for when you return.”

He is gone before she has a chance to respond.

She traces the spot he has left for her name. Her fingers mark the shapes of the letters and she imagines what it would be like to tell him. She wonders what it would look to if she allowed him to finish it.

_I do not know why you are here._

She had attributed his words to fever, to the blows to the head he had suffered, to leaning, but now she wonders if he had meant exactly what he had said. Why is she here?

She knows the answer as surely as she knows the beat of her own heart.

_Love._

_Love._

_Love._

The love of him, the absence of her sister’s - that is why she is here. She wonders which is more cruel: to love this way or to not love at all?

She stands and replaces the tapestry over the chest, hiding the empty place as if that will make it disappear, but she knows it does not. Nothing ever will.


	20. Chapter 20

She squints when she emerges from the shed, arms and mind burdened. Thick clouds still hang low in the sky but the dim winter sun bounces up from the track-laden snow to blind her. Perhaps for the better. If she couldn’t see the snow then she couldn’t see his blood, her blood, their blood, that she knows stains the winter landscape.

The adjustment of her eyes does not hinder her from making it from the shed to the door of their home with no delay. She knows the way, just a few steps to the right to their connected living quarters. It is familiar. Her heart begins again to ponder the injustice of this familiarity but it is cut short when she opens to the door to find _Bjarg_ doubled over on his knees. The supplies in her arms drops to the ground as she hurries to his side.

She falls alongside him on the straw covered floor, hands hovering but not touching, and tries to peer at his face. His hair, a tangled, bloody mess, tumbles over his cheeks obscuring her view. The tips of her fingers catch the barest amount to sweep back the clumps far enough to behold the deathly shade of his normally ruddy complexion.

“I need to stoke the fire.” His breath comes in short, hard pants. She looks up. The fire is still raging from her earlier efforts.

“You’re trembling.” She rests a hand on his arm. “You are chilled.”

“It will stop.”

“Will it?” He looks at ther then, eyes focused and distant all at once and she can feel his pain like a second heartbeat. She presses her palm to his clammy cheek, careful to keep pressure off sensitive places. His eyes close.

“Please. You need rest.”

He sighs. “ _Logi_ …”

“Please.” She lifts the hand from his arm to his cheek, thumb stroking over sweat slick skin and stubble. “Please.”

“Will you stay with me?” He tilts his head up to meet her gaze more directly. “If I rest - will you stay?”

Her breath hitches. The wild thing sparks his expression and she is caught off guard at the feral intensity of it. A nervous giggle bubbles out of her throat before she can stop it.

“It is winter. Where would I go other than here?”

She tries to speak levity into the moment but even as the words slip off her tongue she feel the layer strip back. His face is awash with newfound earnestness at her unintentional vulnerability.

“I wish you would tell me.”

The air rushes out of the room. She had been teasing - trying to ease the sting of his pride with humor - and is disarmed entirely in the face of his want, his honesty. It is not a question, but it may as well be.

She drops her hand from his clammy cheek.

“I will stay.” Her eyes and hands go to her lap. “If you rest, I will stay.”

“Fine. I will rest.” His tone is flat and dry. “Bring me first what you gathered. I’ll put water on the boil.”

He pushes back to sit on his heels and sways to stay upright. She catches his shoulder against her palm. He slumps and there is nothing she can do to stop that. He is face down in the straw before she can stop it. She scrambles to turn him over. Her mind flashes to earlier in the woods and she knows what it could take to wake him.

She is not about the employee that method.

“ _Bjarg_.” She shakes his shoulders. “ _Bjarg_ , wake up.”

She shakes him again, but he doesn’t respond. She shakes him again, harder than she should she knows, but he groans. His eyes flutter open and he pushes up onto his elbows as if to sit up. She keeps hands on his shoulders to restrain him.

“Stay.” She says with more authority than she thinks she has. “You agreed to rest now you are going to do just that.”

She does not want to fetch the things she had brought from the shed. She wants to shake him even more thoroughly for his need to fight Nadir, for his inability to see the outcome, for making her love him just to threaten to remove that love. She thinks of her parents, Elsa - she does not cry - but she feels the tell-tale sting scald the backs of her eyes. She must escape him even for just an instant or he will see her crack.

He stays up on his elbows, but does not attempt to rise further as she collects the supplies she had dropped in her hurry. She can see him shaking with effort as she approaches. She kneels before him and sets the elements within his reach.

“There now, you can see to it that I brought what we needed and _I’ll_ see to boiling the water.”

She stands and fetches a small bronze pot. She goes to the water barrel by the door only to be stopped by his voice.

“Fill it with snow.” She can hear the tremor there and it stabs at her. “Careful to only take the very top of untouched places.”

She does not understand his reason but the intensity in his tone compels her to obey. She is still dressed from her previous venture so she has no need to prepare before venture back out-of-doors.

The world is no less bright than than it was the minutes before. She squints her eyes and sludges through cold powder to find places where the snow remained pristine. She uses the lip of the pot to scoop the very top most layer of untouched snow where she can find it. The specific order takes much longer than if she had just ladled what she needed into the pot, but she does not even consider questioning it. It is several minutes before she has filled the pot full and packed to the brim, knowing it will be less when it finally heats, and she returns inside.

She expects to find him much in the same place where she left him, or perhaps on the pelts or even the bed, but she never expected him to be kneeling in front of his chest with nearly the entirety of its contents strewn about the floor around him.

The sight it so strange, so uncharacteristic of his normally measured, tempered self that she freezes upon opening the door. There are maps, blankets, tools, odds objects veiled in leather wraps, weapons all scattered in the straw around him and her stomach clenches. He does not acknowledge her entrance, but instead reaches to what seems to be the deepest place of the chest. A strange jingle accompanies the movement that breaks her from her momentary trance.

“What is this?” She can think of nothing else to say.

“Boil the snow.” He is terse and she knows it is because of her earlier evasion. If she won’t answer - neither will he. She tries to keep it from hurting, but still it does.

It always does.

If she just…

No.

She goes to the fire ring in the center of the room no less than a little perplexed. The fire is still strong from her earlier work and the packed snow begins to melt quickly over the flame. She looks to him again.

He has stopped his search and has turned to sit with his back against the chest. His head is lolled back, eyes hooded, and he’s watching her. One large hand, battered and bruised, is clasped around something in his lap. She cannot see what it is, but she feels he found whatever it was for which he searched. He seems equally determined to distract her from this fact.

“I’ve made a mess.” He does not elaborate, may have even been joking, but neither of them smile. “ _Log,_ ” his eyelids flutter - his entire body shuddering. “You must know…”

She can see him fighting to remain conscious and her heart leaps to her throat. To see him fight like this for something as small as staying awake stabs at her. She rushes to aid him in his battle, to help him stay with her, and cups his face in healing palms.

“I must know what?” She tells herself her question is mostly just to keep him awake, alert, instead of to satisfy the curiosity that is eating her alive. “What must I know?”

His cheek presses into the palm that bears the scar that bound them by blood. His eyes glaze over, unfocused.

“You must know that anything - everything - anything I do…” His lips scarcely move and she knows she is losing him to a darkness she cannot fight any more than he can. She leans in and strokes his cheek.

“What? What?” She presses back matted hair from his sweaty brown, heart thundering at the possibility of what could be spoken - of the implication of what could happen if he fell asleep never again to wake. “Anything you do is what?”

She drops a hand and shakes his shoulder. His neck finds a moment of strength, eyes focusing just enough to meet hers.

“Protect you. Everything - anything…” There is more that he says, or at least his lips twitch as if to speak, but his eyes close and that is it.

She shakes his shoulder again, holding his face, but he remains still beyond the rise and fall of his chest. She knows she will not rouse him this time. Wishes form in her mind in that instant: that she will be able to create the healing paste he needs, that she will devise a way to make this all easier, that she will wake in the palace and this will all have been some strange dream - no. She does not want that. She does not want the sole source of admiration and potentially affection to be something fabricated in a lonely sleep. She knows, in her core, this is no such situation. Still she wonders.

If she had known what she knew she would endure outside of the palace - would she have ever left?

A throbbing pain radiates behind her eyes with that thought but she will not feel sorry for herself. There is no point for that when there are so many other things that need her attention.

She starts with moving him.

It takes a bit of work to move him away from the chest in a way where she can grasp him beneath the arms as she had in the woods, but she manages. By the time she maneuvers him across the room to the bed, inch by painful grunting inch, she is out of breath. The process of dragging him onto the bed takes almost all the strength she has, but she manages in a way she hopes will not damage him further. Once he is on the bed she takes a breath, arranges him the most comfortable way she can contrive, and situates covers atop of him. It is only when she is completely certain he is settled that she turns and looks the other way. It is the only way she can keep herself from crumbling.

That is when she sees it.

Somewhere in the process of moving him, whatever he had held in his hand had slipped from his grip and landed atop the hay by the fire ring. She notices it mostly because of the way it catches the light - jagged and electric in the straw. She goes to it and plucks the egg-sized object up in her hand.  

It is cold, the edges sharp, and even though she knows she has never seen anything quite like this it rings of familiarity. She turns it over in her palms, mindful of the sharp points and edges, and watches the way the firelight plays over the multifaceted surface. The stone is so pure, so clear, it is as if it is made of air itself. It is so clear she can see straight through it - can see each refracted image as she holds it up between her fingers - and it multiplies the mess he made when he disemboweled the contents of his chest. Never in all her days had she ever seen a gem so perfect, so pristine, so large. If it were in the palace it would be prized as a treasure so rare and wonderful that guards would be placed at all times.

She brings it down and cradles it as she looks between him and the mess he’d made and the heavy crystal.

She looks to where he sleeps, his skin like chalk. His last waking moments had been to uncover this stone, to grasp it in battered hands.

She cannot stop the question from escaping her lips on a breath: “Why?”

It echoes the refrain screaming in her mind. There is no harm in this spoken word - he cannot hear her, but she feels the power in asking it shimmer through her blood. Why, when fevered and feeble, did he use his precious energy to search out this stone? Why had she never seen it before? Why did he want her to stay? If everything he did was to keep her safe - what part did his silence play in that?

She is starting to think it is more than she can even imagine.

She returns to the bed where he lays covered in heavy pelts and blankets. She draws the covers to the side and places the crystal on his chest. It rises and falls on shallow, rapid breaths, and she takes the hand resting against his side and turns it palm up. It is then she sees the remaining patches of scabbing, the deep pink of brand new scar tissue. She looks at her own mark and she is taken at the difference. Where his is still angry and raw in many places, barely mended, hers looks weeks - perhaps months - old. She thinks to credit her five days rest and care but even so -

She shakes her head.

His cut had been much worse than hers had been. He had also been working this entire time when she slept with this torn palm, no doubt delaying his healing. Still she has the sensation of attempting to work out a sum with half the figures missing.

He shivers, teeth rattling even in slumber, and she places his wounded palm over the stone before pulling the pelts and blankets back up under his chin. She does not have time for foolish guessing games when his injuries were real and needed attention.

She goes to fetch the items she’d discarded and sets to recreate the potion that had healed her hand. She goes the table, checking the pot of snow as she passes. It is liquid and lukewarm.

She sets to work without letting herself hesitate in doubt. She grinds the herbs and clay to as fine a powder as she can manage. The act that he had made look effortless she finds to require quite a bit more finesse than she possesses. She cannot turn the pestle with the ease he had, her wrist unable to pivot with his practiced fluidity. Still, after a good while, she manages.

The contents of the mortar bears a strong resemblance to the powder he had concocted the week before, but she cannot be certain. She has no sense for these things, no like he does. She wishes he would wake so she can consult him, but one thing she had learned from both of her lives is that wishing is futile and action is everything.

The water boils.

She ladles small amounts into the mortar, stirring with each addition, until a paste forms. She stares at it. Her eyes lift to his face several feet away. The contents of his bowl is to repair him - it _must_ \- but the concoction in her hands seems unequal to the task. He has endured so much and this action seems so small, but she knows that is better than doing nothing.

At least she hopes it is.

She begins with the head wounds, the one of the back of his skull. She pulls fingers through his still damp, tangled locks to expose the heart of his wound. It is deeper than she first thought and she hopes the _akvavit_ had done its job in preparing for the paste she now slathers into it. She swipes a dab at the split on his temple where the skin had split and wraps fresh bandages around her work.

Now for the leg.

Her mind whirls as she draws out his heavy limb from beneath the covers. The leg of his pants is already ruined, torn away from the attentions of Magnus and Trygve no doubt, and she realizes that this the first time she has seen the damage up close and exposed. Nadir’s blade had cut deeply through the meat of his calf. The thick blond hair on his legs is tinted a rusty hue and singed black from Trygve’s sword. At first she is able to look at it with this sort of distant cataloguing feeling: marking the length, depth, and damage away in her mind until the memory of his face when he woke in agony flashes before her eyes.

Her stomach clenches.

He had wanted to die - she had seen it. The pain so had been so excruciating - and now she sees the cut may well just grant his wish.

The skin still smells of char so she breathes through her mouth as she mixes honey into the paste she had already rendered.

When he had tended her wounds, he had used the paste for the cut and honey for the burn, but here he had both and thus she decides to treat him with both. With what she hopes is a sufficient ratio of all elements she presses them all deep into the smoldering gash.

He does not even twitch.

She realizes then that in the back of her mind she had wanted the pain of the treatment to wake him, but it hadn’t. She wonders if she will ever see him awake again. When she has slathered his leg in as much of her compound as she can she wraps it tightly in fresh bandages and replaces his leg back beneath the covers.

She considers for a moment to remove his boots - if that will make him more comfortable. The soft leather, sealed tight with bee’s wax and lined with beaver are quite like her own, only much larger, and she wondered if he fashioned this pair as he had hers. In the end he leaves them. His shivering may have ceased for the moment, but she does not want to jeopardize his warmth in any way. She brings an extra pelt from the pile that had been his bed for so long and places it on top of him with a sigh.

Now what?

She looks around the cabin. There is much to do, but she cannot focus on any on task long enough to decide she should set to it. The only thing she can think is if he will wake up.

She needs him to wake up.

She is uncertain how long she sits there timing her breaths to his, but it feels like days.

Her stomach growls.

The small meal she had eaten upon waking was long past sustaining her and that hunger alone pulls her from his side. She goes to their shelves and finds two small rolls that _Bjarg_ must have prepared while she slept. She thinks to save one of them for him if he wakes, but then she remembers that she had slept five days and her wounds had not been this severe. If he woke soon by some miracle she would bake him fresh bread, warm and soft, dip it bone broth, and feed it to him. Now, however, she will eat this stale fare to keep up her strength so she can watch over him as he watched over her.

The bread sits like rocks in her stomach. She washes it down with what remains of the boiled snow to keep herself warm. She knows she should eat more but the hunger that had been so sharp now is replaced by a sickeningly full feeling. She remembers how _Bjarg_ had warned her just that morning that it would take time for the capacity of her stomach to return, still she feels the rise in her energy at the sustenance.

It is time to work.

Her eyes go to the mess by his chest and supposes that is a good a place to start as any.

His leather maps are scattered amongst the straw along with any spare clothes he has. Odds and ends she figures are tools for some sort of something share the same fate. There is the sewing box she has used since arriving here. The yardage he’d bartered in Arendelle for their clothes for the next season is a rumpled mess. Then there are the weapons: his bow and quiver, the _weregild_ sword from Gunnar, different blades she had seen him polishing only to replace in their covers and stored away. A bulky item wrapped in cloth that she has never investigated is the only thing that seems to have been set aside with any care. She realizes that while she had taken his map from this chest - she had done little actual investigating of its contents beyond that.

She looks inside the chest to see if anything remains. There are a few loose ends but the one that grabs her attention is a single wooden figurine laying atop a leather pouch. It is only a few inches tall, worn slick from handling, and not looking the better for it. It is an oddly shaped creature though it has some things she considers recognizable features. It has legs, arms, over-sized hands, but the knees bend the wrong way, its fingers look more like claws, and its back is grotesquely hunched. It’s head is bulbous with a pronounced underbite, and from the protruding bottom jaw she thinks she can make out two jutting fangs.

Never in her life has she ever encountered such a likeness - not in model, reality, nor rendering - and she wonders equally what it is as much as she wonders where it came from. She reaches for the pouch upon which the figure had rested. Her hands catch the drawstring and she lifts to find it not empty. In fact the contents tinkle as she draws int onto her lap and she thinks it must be his coin but she she pours the contents onto her skirt she realizes just how incorrect she is.

Crystals of all sizes, some even larger than the one she had held first, tumble out of the slick leather pouch. There are at least twenty. Some are that perfectly clear share like a brook in the spring while others are clouded black and as opaque the night sky. All were shaped in the same sharp edged cylinders with pointed ends.

“Why?” She asks the silence once more, unable to stop herself.

She looks back into the chest and discovers one more thing she had never noticed. There, where she had found the satchel full of crystals was a hole deeper than the rest of the chest’s base - a false bottom. Her ‘why’ deepens until her mind rejects thought all together.

It is too much, too strange, and she wishes she had never seen any of it.

If _Bjarg_ had kept it from her until now - he had his reasons the same as she had hers, but now her mind blazed with questions she cannot answer, cannot ask.

She shoves the crystals back into their pouch and jams the figurine in after them. She stuffs the bag back into the hidden hole, not bothering to figure out how to reclose it, before haphazardly replacing the items he had ripped from within in his frenzy. The task is a bit of a doing, but she hardly notices the passing of time. Her mind is too preoccupied with hidden things and why.

She needs to check the animals, return the healing elements, prepare a meal, clean, manage, do anything but drive herself mad with questions she will never have answered.

_One thing at a time_. She thinks. _One thing at a time is easy enough to do._

She sets to it, knowing that the moment she stops will be the moment that the questions - the why - will get the better of her. She kills two birds with one stone as she decides to return excess herbs and clay to their place in the shed and check on the animals.

She has learned to squint whenever entering this snow covered world now, and the light does not burn her eyes. The sun has sunk low in the sky now and it will be night soon, she knows. She remembers stepping out this same door just before dawn, the light eerily similar, and before this new nightmare began.

She ventures the ten steps it takes to reach the shed door, wrapping her arms around her waist to ward off a chill that had little to do with the weather. The inside of the shed is warm enough - the shared wall with the cabin helps insulate both rooms, and she realizes that she has never had to worry about winter before this. The seasons had all clipped along with senseless monotony in the palace. She had always been kept comfortable no matter the temperature outside and now - well - the cold did not bother her too badly. Winter - she thinks - is the hardest of the seasons, the least accommodating for human imperfection or impulse and she thinks of Elsa.

Then, just as quickly, she doesn’t.

Thinking of her sister just made everything more complicated. She made her choice the moment she hid in that waste wagon and escaped the monotonous isolation her existence had become after her parents died. Her thoughts belonged elsewhere now - or at least until the thaws came.

And they would come.

But not today.

She lights the lantern by the door of the shed and sets to work returning what she needs to their particular places. She gives extra eats to the reindeer and a handful of feed to the chickens. She remembers _Bjarg_ speaking of the she-goat in the marketplace and wishes now they had managed to acquire it. She can hardly recall the taste of milk.

What she does not do is look in the crowded corner where she knows her chest waits, alone and nameless, beneath the tapestry that is as inexplicable as it is beautiful. She does not allow her mind to dwell on what it is or what it means or what it could mean. She does not think of the way his eyes had bore into her as he’d stood slumped in the doorway - the silhouette of his frame blocking almost all the light from outside. She does not think of the taste of his mouth - of the way questions flavored his tongue even if he never asked them. She thinks of him protecting her, fighting for her, but she does not look in the corner. She does not think of what it could mean to tell him her name, her truth. Even the idea of it is overwhelming.

So just as she had with thoughts of her sister, she pushes them aside as she works.

When she returns to the house the sunlight is almost gone. He remains unmoved. She knew in some part of her that she would be, but she had hoped… . She reminds herself what hope is good for and sets to work instead.

She must keep up her strength if she is to care for him. She sheds her cloak and mittens and goes to the larder. She gathers what she needs to make a loaf of bread. The coarse flour, she knows, must last the winter so she uses it sparingly. She mixes and kneads as he had shown her until it is ready to lay across the fire rack to bake. When it is there she arranges the burning logs to ensure even heat before turning to clean the messes she’d made.

There are dishes to wash and she is loathe to use the water from the drinking barrel. She removes the small copper pot from the fire hook and replaces it with the large cast iron one. When she had first come to this place there had been chance she would have even been able to lift the heavy cauldron, and she feels a sense of pride in the strength she has gained. Even with her additional strength, however, she must fill it separately from hanging it as there is no way she could have lifted the thing when full.

She puts back on her winter wear and grabs the buckets. She goes to the stream behind their home and breaks the ice. The buckets fill easily from the frigid flow and she lugs them back inside. By the time she has filled the pot it is dark outside.

While the water heats she returns attention to her bread. She shrugs out of her cloak, but leaves her mittens so she can turn the bread without burning herself. Parts stick to the metal bars and she loses chunks in the process. She had forgotten to grease the bars with the rendered elk fat the way _Bjarg_ had shown her. She has only been here a season and yet she has learned so much that she never could have imagined learning in the palace. _Bjarg_ had poured all he could about his simple life into her but she looks to his chest in the corner and realizes just how little he had trusted her with.

She knows his home, how to run the house, but she does not know him. She knows his kindness, his strength, but she does not know his secrets. This is not a revelation, but the amount to which she cares is. She _wants_ to know - and that terrifies her because she is not naive enough to think that she can know his secrets without him knowing hers. 

He can never know.

She can never let him know.

Her chest clenches on the impulse to run.

_If you rest - I will stay_. That could be the final promise she ever makes him.

She shakes off the thought.

She will not dwell on that idea even though she is hard pressed to ignore others that crop up in its place. What if staying only brings this and worse upon him? What if he survives this only to be laid low by whatever tragedy she brings upon them next? She remembers the idea of being his winter bird - but she cannot help but feel her presence in his life has been something much crueler.

The water steams. She has things to do besides senseless conjecture.

She takes the bandages caked with filth and brings them to the table. She fetches the lye soap and scrubs it into each fiber of each strip. When she is quite satisfied with that she ladles steaming water from the cast iron pot above the fire into a wooden basin. She places the tools she used to make the bread and the paste she used for his wounds and in the steaming water to soak. Then she takes the bandages and throws them into the cast iron pot. With a large stir stick she agitates the cloth and watches as grime and blood slough off.

She stirs until the water turns a foul burnt red, until her arms ache and the still healing skin of her palms threatens to tear anew. She stirs till her sides throb and her back is alight with fire. She stirs till she there is no room to think of anything but the sensations of exhaustion running through her entire body. Then she pulls the bandages out of the water on the end of her stick and plops them on the table to hang.

She lets the steaming mess cool as she fetches the unleavened bread from the rack and places it on the opposite end of the table. While the bandages and bread cool, she drains the pot above the stove. She ladles out the entire contents one bucket at a time, careful to mind she doesn’t drown the fire beneath with her shaking arms, and goes out into the dark to dump the filthy contents.

Bit by bit, trip by trip, she empties the pot all the while knowing that it will need a good cleaning before she can use it again for anything else. On her last trip out and behind their home - tracing the rough exterior with her shoulder in the dark so she does not get lost - she hears something. It is not the typical rustle of a branch or wind through the trees. It is not the soft crunch of snow beneath leather boots or the too familiar sounds of a blade leaving its scabbard. It is something different - something bigger, heavier than anything she has ever heard before like a mountain ripped up from its roots to take a step. It is a sound that she can _feel_.

She freezes, breath stopping, and waits. She does not hear - feel - anything else but she senses eyes on her. The creeping impression works up her spine till the hair on her neck stands on end. Then she hears it again - a strange low thunder unlike anything she has ever encountered - and she runs. She drops her buckets and runs as fast as she can back to the door of the house. She stumbles around the corner of the house in the dark - too terrified to breathe - and when she finally makes it into the dim light of the cabin she slams the door and bars it. Her legs give way and she slides the to the ground against the secured door - mind racing.

What was that? Whatever it was - will a door such as this keep it out if it wants to get in? She tries to quiet her breathing, calm her heart, so she can listen. Whatever had made that noise would not be able to sneak up on them, that was for certain, and she takes a small comfort in that. _Bjarg_ remains unchanged and she thinks that perhaps she has never wanted him to wake more than she does in this very instant.

But what can he do? Even he has limits - she has been told as much - and she knows it is her job to defend them. She goes to the chest and opens it. She grabs at the first blades she sees, Gunnar’s _weregild_ and one other she has seen him polish but never use and unsheathes them both. Then with a weapon in each hand, the blade he gave her nestled close at her hip, she stands before the door and waits for whatever will come.

And in that moment, she realizes that whatever it may be - for the first time in her life - she may be ready.


	21. Chapter 21

She waits and waits and waits. Her grip on her blades loosens in time with the seconds that claw by, the tension in her spine unwinding, but still her mind remains sharp. Each pop or fizz from the fire, each catch in _Bjarg’s_ breathing brings her back to her ready stance, but nothing comes.

The raging fire is nearly embers when she finally lays down her weapons to rebuild it. As she stacks the dry logs and tinder from the supplies by the door she cannot help but allow herself to wonder if she had imagined the threat in the dark. Her mind is fuzzed around the edges - still not quite right after her sleeping sickness and trials. Such arduous ordeals could have her creating things out of nothing and yet she cannot convince herself of its nothingness.

She knows what she heard: a sound too big for moose or bear, unlike any step a man could manage, but yet the silence outside is so complete it sends a shiver down her spine.

It is this silence that gives her pause.

She hears nothing outside the cabin’s walls, not the whistle of the wind or the stirring of the animals against the shared wall or the rustle of a passing herd of caribou. The air itself seems to hold a strange silence beyond the normal night hush. The skin on back of her neck prickles. What if whatever she had heard was waiting just outside - listening - waiting for her to grow lax and venture back out into its domain? What if it grew tired of waiting and forced whatever issue it had upon her without question?

She shakes her head.

Now surely she was thinking nonsense.

Whatever she had heard was too large, too momentous to sneak. Nothing so loud could also be so silent. She is allowing her mind to borrow trouble. It has been an impossible day. The stress and exhaustion rise against her and she wonders if her fever dreams are not quite done with her yet.

She stops her rebuilding and presses her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose.

Yes.

Exhaustion.

Stress.

That is all this is. That is all it could be. Anything else would be - well - lunacy and she is not crazy. She cannot be crazy. She is just tired beyond belief and she feels herself begin the process of rationalizing rest. Her eyes drift to _Bjarg_ where he lays on the bed and she envies him, understands him. Is this what he dealt with the days she lay still and sick? Did his heart wrench in his chest just at the sight of her? Did she want that?

She take back up the _weregild_ blade from Gunnar, the other, and feels the weight of them for the first time. They are not slight weapons, and they pull on her tired arms. The realness of them distract her for a moment from the state of him, from the pain clenching in her chest, but it is not enough. She cannot stand with them for long. Whatever fire had burned within her from fear now fizzles and she is worn slick.

What then is there to do?

She looks to him again, though it pains her, and remembers how she had found him when she had returned from her fever dreams. His body had bent to hers from the ground as a man worshiping at a pagan altar and perhaps that is the way it is with them. Perhaps worship from a safe distance is all they will be allowed and while safe the idea does not bring her warmth.

She realizes, albeit abstractly, she wants more.

Tonight, however, she knows she will have to content herself to merely be near him.

She eyes the fire, the swampy mess of bandages on the table, but cannot care about them. They will keep till dawn. She looks back to _Bjarg_. Would he keep? A stuttered breath rips from her chest.

He must.

She needs him to.

She goes to the bed.

_Here is how I would have you._

She does not dare for the sake of his sleep as much as the sake of her heart.

Instead she kneels how he had, arms and weapons crossed and ready on the edge of the bed, and rests her head. She will sleep, but she will not be unprepared. Her fingers twitch about the handles of her blades as she drifts onto a sea of darkness.

The last thing she thinks of is Elsa.

…

She feels the jolt, the sudden cold, and for a moment she thinks she must be dreaming again. So many of her dreams with her sister held an icy tint, but this is different. The cold is real.

Her eyes snap open. The fire has died down but burns brightly enough for her to note that the door is open. She startles, hands fisting on her weapons, and as she yanks herself to consciousness she knows he is gone. She looks just to confirm, but it is unnecessary. She knows. She can feel him, his presence, his absence, without seeing.

He is gone.

He had opened the door.

He had left.

Her heart knows.

She struggles to her feet, skirts tangling, and she has no idea how he’d maneuvered himself from the bed without waking her. She trips as she tries to make it to the door. Every movement feels as though she is pushing through something thick, solid, without hope of reprieve. She tries to cut at the invisible encumberment with the blades in her hands, but it is worthless. Her hands slash at nothing.

Still, she persists.

At the door she abandons the Gunnar’s _weregild_ in favor of the lantern as she stumbles through the thick darkness. The glow of the lantern does nothing. She can hardly see in the unearthly black that presses around her in unprecedented reality. She had never know light, air, to have weight like this and yet now it crushes her.

She presses on.

“ _Bjarg_!” She calls, gasping to draw enough breath into burning lungs to yell his name.

She can make out new prints in the snow - different from the ones left earlier - and she follows them. Each muscle fiber in her body trembles with effort.

“ _Bjarg_!” She cries again as her steps lead her from their front door and into the wood. They had not gone this way before - had never taken this path - and she follows his lonely tracks. The trees crowd together as if to grasp her. She can almost hear them screaming. Her heart clenches, but she does not stop.

Again she shouts his name but feels the sound of it swallowed into nothingness.

Does she dream again?

She staggers to a stop, sucking deep gulps of air only to feel more starved of oxygen with each breath, and feels the world start to swim around her. Her shoulder cants into the thick trunk of a nearby elm as she fights to keep her bearings. The thoughts in her mind spin in a dizzy whirl. She gasps against the rising pressure around her. The air charges with an electricity so foreign she has no way to understand the power of it. It is as if the energy is devouring the very oxygen around her and she is standing in a void so complete she would never draw breath again.

She forces herself to move, vision spotting, for whatever state she is in she knows that he must be in a place much more grave. She does not have time for anger, to gnash her teeth against his irrational decision to wander in his condition. She does not have time to consider the fevered sickness that could have pushed him to stray in a delirious cloud. She can only follow his path and hope against all hope she will not collapse before she finds him.

She catches herself against a new tree, dropping her weapon so her palm scrapes on rough bark, and she cannot take another step. How far has she gone into these woods? A mile? Two? Each step is more difficult than the last and for all she has not wondered she takes a moment to consider just how he could have in his weakened, hobbled state made it this far in this crushing darkness. Her mind cannot unravel the question however as her arm collapses and she crashes into the trunk. The rise and fall of her chest accelerates as she attempts to feed starving lungs, to take another step, but she can feel the bruising darkness keep her still as if it has grown arms to restrain her.

Is this where they both end: in this inexplicable dark hush?

She is just barely holding to the last thread of consciousness when she sees an explosion of light so clean and pure that the shadows burst to nothingness and all she can see is white. Shapes take form in the brilliance, dimly at first, and then she can make out silhouettes of trees - plants - and something else. It is giant, twice as tall as _Bjarg_ ’s cabin, even if it stands with a horrible hunch. It is all sharp angles, unforgiving planes cutting into jagged outcroppings, and she has seen this shape before in her dreams. Except then she had been held by this monstrous creature in hands that were gentle but hard and now those hands are holding someone else.

They are holding _Bjarg._

She opens her mouth to scream but the light comes again in a staggering pulse and the light then turns dark.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

She does not remember anything after that.

….

Her head throbs, the limbs of her body feel drugged and heavy, and she shifts in discomfort. Everything feels slower than it should. The drag and pull of her muscles are all wrong, crackling and stiff, and she tries to sit up. It is then that she is made aware of the heaviness draped over her waist. She blinks bleary eyes and sees a thick arm wrapped around her in the dim amber light.

That startles her.

She attempts to sit up once more and succeeds. She sucks a deep, greedy breath of air and listens. She can hear the wind in the trees, the low creak of branches, and she is flooded with the strangest feeling of relief.

She looks back behind her then and sees him sleeping. His arm has fallen to her lap but he has not stirred. Sleep’s hold is strong on him and for this she is grateful. She does not know where to begin explaining what she had seen - what she thought she had seen - and heard. Had she been dreaming?

The cabin is dim, the fire low, so she cannot make out much beyond her immediate surroundings. Still she scours the space as if her eyes can answer any question she has.

Then - after a few moments - a funny revelation strikes.

When had she gotten into bed with him?

She remembers falling asleep sitting on the floor and yet here she is curled back against him as they had been after Magnus and Trygve departed. She can see the bandage on his head - knows that the gap between that first sleep and now was not something she had hallucinated. She had cared for him and their home and then slept to guard him, not to warm him.

Had she unknowingly crawled into his arms in a waking dream? That is the easiest explanation. Already the dream of crushing black and blinding white is fading - wait - was it a dream? She shakes her head trying to hold onto truth and rid her mind of all else but finds that the tighter she squeezes the more it slips through her fingers.

He groans, soft and low and the sound spooks her. She looks to see him still sleeping, whatever pain he is in so deep it made him cry out despite his rest and she wishes to soothe him but does not know how - does not know what is real and what is imagined. She remembers the wood, the creature holding _Bjarg_ and how it matched the figurine in the chest, matched the dream she had had in her sickness. Had her brain dreamt such a thing simply from seeing the carving? But if that is so how could she had dreamt it before her discovery? She can hardly let herself think it: but what if that creature is real?

She shudders.

It cannot be. There is nothing in the natural order of things that can explain this asides from her the idea that her mind is altered. Somehow she is more willing to accept this, her own deficiency, than to consider that perhaps, just maybe, such a beast exists. That it may exist and that somehow _Bjarg_ knows of it.

She lays down once more, fitting herself into the curve of his chest as if it had been carved specifically to hold her, and clutches her weaponless hands to her breast. She cannot bring herself to check by the door to see if Gunnar’s _weregild_ still lay there, will not go into the wood to search out the other blade, because she is not ready to know.

The truth is not something she thinks she can survive.

She is done asking why. Why they both cling to secrets, why they are only honest when they are testing the shapes of each other’s mouths, why she loves him. She knows - cannot understand - but knows. She is done asking why.

The question that comes now is how. How to understand, how to dance that line of knowing but never saying, how to love him.

She does not know how to love him without destroying them both.

…..

A choked gravely breath rushes against the back of her neck and wakes her.

The fire is all but out. Her own breaths come in small frosty puffs as she realizes she had fallen back asleep and failed to wake at a reasonable hour.

She stumbles from the bed stiff and awkward as she tries to not disturb him but knows from his groan that she failed at that. She supposes she should be grateful for that groan - yesterday she would have given anything to hear any sign of life from his lips but now she does not know how she will face him when he wakes. She does not know what she will say, how she will meet his lock-pick gaze without giving away the change - and she realizes that she is expecting him to wake. Whatever doubt that had lived in her chest that night before as been burned out of her.

She tells herself it is just because she had good rest, that he is making noises - not because of what happened in the woods.

What had happened in the woods?

She tries to ignore Gunnar’s _weregild_ by the door when she collected sticks and logs but it is there as damning evidence just as surely as the lantern by the door is nowhere to be found. She has a feeling that if she goes into the wood she will find the lantern and other blade abandoned by the tree where she had lost hold of consciousness. 

She has a feeling that all of this was much more real than she wants to believe, but feelings she knows are not to be trusted on their own.

Her hands still in her mending of the fire and her eyes go to his chest and the hidden compartment at the bottom. If she could just confirm what she’d seen - just perhaps piece together all the things that had lead up to whatever she had seen she could sort the true from the false on her own. She would not have to ask because she would know. If she could just -

She turns back to her work. This is madness. No matter what she is feeling _Bjarg_ is still gravely injured and they are without a proper doctor and she cannot even wake at a proper time on her own to make certain they do not freeze. She does not have time to be digging for things that will not matter in the end of it.

Because she cannot stay, not after winter. Last night, no matter what actually happened, decided that.

She needs to be with someone who can know her fully - and he the same. No matter how much she wants to be that for him she does not know how. She does not know how.

But she does know how to build a fire. She does know how to feed and care for the animals. She does know how to scrub the soiled pot from the night before so that it can be used for cooking. She does know how to hang the still damp bandages from the rafters to dry properly. She knows how to prepare a meal of stewed meat and roots to restore him if he wakes. She knows this and she does this. It keeps her steady. It keeps her sure.

She does not look at his chest.

She does not look at hers where it sits in the corner of the shed.

She works.

It is only when she comes to the end of her list, when there is naught else to do but stir the stew to keep it from charring, that her eyes wander. She shouldn’t. She knows. She looks at him instead, opposite the chest, and goes to him as she had so often during the day. She had gone to him each time he had grown restless in sick sleep and even though he still now she goes.

His face is still clammy and pale. His lips are ashen. She cups his cheeks in her hands, bristle scratching, and kisses his forehead as she has each time she has checked him.

“I am here. Rest now. I am here.”

She cannot be certain but she thinks that she feels him relax at that, even in sleep wanting to be certain she had not left. It is the least she can do to assure him.

She does not check his leg, cannot bring herself to. She thinks she should but what could she do? She has done all she knows.

She goes to the nightsoil cabinet and removes the bucket. She may not be useful but she will not be useless.

She goes out into the cold without her cape or gloves planning only a short trip to empty the bucket in the refuse pit and sluice it in the stream. She has just completed the distasteful chore (something a princess would never imaged doing, she considered with grim glee) when a familiar voice calls her.

“Ho now!”

Anna turns to see Alva approached, arms full with something in tow.

Of all the people Anna had expected to see…

“Ho now,” Anna calls in kind from surprise, unable to create a unique response. “May I help you?”

Even from three yard she can see Alva’s face skew in amusement. “Ya think if I be needing help I would be hailing you, strange one?”

Anna blushes without embarrassment. Alva did not mean her words cruelly and thus she could take them at that but she still felt the slightest sting at the fact that though she may have just cleaned a nightsoil pail there is much she does not know or understand about this world. One such thing is that after yesterday’s battle with both Nadir and _Bjarg_ laid so low she had not thought she would see Alva so soon. The appearance leaves her frozen, watching the approach.

“I suppose not.” Is all Anna can say, but Alva laughs. It is not in the fullness Alva typically laughs, but the sound is warm nonetheless.

“Ya will not be knowing why I am here now, do ya?” Alva is closer now, close enough that Anna realizes the small thing trailing behind her is a young goat.

Anna shakes her head. The question itself leads her to believe the reason if far beyond that of friendship.

“This is a balancing,” Alva is close enough now that she stops before Anna, wide cheeks rosy from the cold. “Nadir did dishonor to ya and yer home. These are parts of his inheritance he willna receive now.” She shrugs her shoulders to emphasize the contents of her arms and nods her head in the direct of the small goat bleating against the cold snow almost up to its belly.

Anna remembers the goat that _Bjarg_ had been bartering for back in Arendelle. If she had not made the decision to run that night from their room at the inn would he have had a chance to secure it? Would any of this have happened the way it did? Did it matter?

“Oh.” Anna thinks of Nadir’s blade, the blood and damage done, and she wonders if there is a price you can put on restoring devastation. “Is he -” she remembers Nadir’s prone form in the snow. “Will he - how does he fare?”

“Better than he should have by all accounts. He could well have delivered this all himself but pa considered it a poor idea indeed to have Nadir come around these parts given the history.”

A connection snaps in place at Alva’s words. “They’ve fought before.”

Alva shrugs, not understanding the smallest crumb of history felt like a feast. “You will find me surprised as any if this was the last of it.”

“But why?”

At that the gregarious nature strips itself from Alva’s tongue. “That is a story for another day.”

Anna hears what Alva does not say. She will not ask again. It seems that everyone here has something to hide.

“He is asleep still. The wounds keep him that way.” Anna moves on. “But come with me and be warmed before you return to your home.”

“How long has he slept?” Alva falls into step along Anna as they return to the cabin.

“Since last afternoon.”

“And he has no woken?” Alva’s gray eyes are sharp and curious.

“Well,” Anna starts about to speak into the strange episode in the woods, caught off guard at first by the candidness of Alva’s inquiry, when something clamps her mouth shut. “No.”

Alva is quiet for a moment and Anna know she has only drawn more attention where she wishes there was none. Alva already thinks her odd. There is no reason to compel her to believe her to be completely daft.

Anna watches her feet crunch already trodden snow and can feel Alva watching her. The scrutiny makes her squirm. Her inability to lie comes to the forefront and while she glad to Alva’s visit she wishes that she did not see so much.

Anna reaches for the rope wrapped in Alva’s hand.

“Let me settle the goat into the shed. I will meet you in the house.” And even though the door to the shed is just steps from the door to her home she sets a different trajectory from her counterpart - the small animal bleating behind her in protest to the accelerated pace.

When she gets inside the shed, she collapses back against the door. Her furry companion, clearly not fully grown, frolics a bit to shake the snow from its short legs. She leads the furry creature back to where _Bjarg’s_ reindeer Sven stood.

“She is one of us now.” She tells the reindeer. “Be kind to her.”

Anna ties the goat’s lead to a spare peg and brings feed for both Sven and their new friend. The chicken cluck at the unfairness and she sprinkles grain for them as well before she presses her hands to her stomach and tries to settle her nerves.

This is Alva.

She has nothing to fear from her. She has seen that time and again and yet she is uneased. It is as if whatever rope she had been weaving since appearing here was quickly unraveling leaving her grasping at threads. It is difficult to the point of impossibility, she thinks, to play a game when one only knows half the rules. Still she has no choice.

She draws a few more fortifying breaths trying to not think of how impossible it had been to breathe the night before in the woods and leaves the shed. When she enters the cabin she sees many things. The fire is still bright, warm, and strong. On the table across the way she can see a few of the parcels Alva had brought with her in various stages of unwrap. At this distance she thinks she sees cheese, dried meat and tools she cannot make out just yet. Alva is not with them, however. She is with _Bjarg_ , his wounded leg drawn out from beneath the covers and bandages removed.

Anna can tell from the expression on her friend’s face that something is horribly wrong.

“Is this it then?” Alva’s face is stark, almost sunken looking in the firelight. “Is this where my brother’s knife did it’s work?”

Anna cannot see the wound from where she stands, is too frightened by Alva’s tone and expression to come closer, but she nods anyway. “Yes. That is it.”

“It canna be.” Alva looks back to _Bjarg’s_ calf, pressing fingers to it. “It just canna be.”

Though she has not known the girl long, Anna knows this is not like Alva. The broad girl had always been steady, sure, but now she is shaken and Anna thinks it must be because of the severity of the wound.

“Magnus and Trygve seared it shut with a sword. I mixed a healing paste for it as best I could and wrapped it but there is not much more to be done.” Anna feels her voice shake, the smallness of her help magnified when spoken aloud.

Alva looks back at her with a face a serious as she has ever seen. “And nothing else was done?”

Anna’s cheeks burned, but she jerked her head from side to side. “That was all.”

Alva shifts her weight so she is facing Anna fully and pierces her with her gaze.

“Then ya best be telling me just what ya put in that paste because this wound is near healed clean through .”


	22. Chapter 22

People run away from innumerable things for even more reasons. They run from responsibility, from fear, from love. They run for loneliness, for pain, for embarrassment. They run to escape their past or change their future.

She runs for it all.

She pauses at her window. Her whole life lay behind her, lies in front of her, and saying goodbye takes just one more moment than she expects. She pulls the hood of her cloak a little tighter around her neck and takes a deep breath to calm her nerves. After all, today is the only day she has ever run away. That time when she was nine does not count because she had not really meant it. This time she does. She means it with her whole heart.

She exhales.

When she was younger, she dreamed of open doors. The world was full of light and air and possibility and she didn’t understand why it all had to be shut out.

“Why?” She’d asked her mother. “Why can’t we open the doors – the gates?”

Her mother’s lips grew tight because she was asked the question far too often. “To keep you safe.”

Anna had heard, but she had not understood.

She had thought that perhaps some day she would, but she never does. So she decides that if she cannot open the doors that she will leave through a window.

….

The day they move her sister to her own bedroom is first day that Anna truly understands loneliness. It is a frantic affair. So many people bustle in and out trying to move her sister’s belongings from their shared space into one of seclusion and yet Anna feels completely isolated. She sits on her bed and watches the systematic severing of sisterhood with childlike ignorance.

She does not realize until years later that that stoic crowd of movers was the last great collection of people she would encounter in the palace.

If she had realized before she would have run all the sooner.

….

Her hands dig into cracks between stones as she begins her descent. The sun will be up soon and she needs to be far away when that happened. She hears Corona is nice this time of year, and it is as good a place as any for a fresh start. No one will know her. No one will expect anything from her. No one can hold her still or hide the world from her. She will be no one, not a princess, a sister, or a daughter.

It would be like she had never existed which would probably feel about the same as every other minute of every other day.

Her feet hit the ground, courtyard cobblestones, and she ducks into a shadow. She had spent the last dozen years memorizing the patterns of the guards but she never thought she would have a reason to use them until now. Shadow to shadow she moves until she is at the gate.

The gate only opens once a day, promptly at dawn for deliveries and to carry out waste, and no other time. She waits. She is good at waiting. Well - good enough at least. If she was a truly gifted waiter then she would be inside the castle asleep in her bed, waiting for the day her sister would open up to her again. But she won’t so she isn’t and she never will be again.

Her heart gives a funny pang. She clenches her jaw and her fists against the crack spreading through her resolve.

She had given Elsa more than enough chances. If she did not want her in her life then Anna will run until she finds someone who does.

…..

When she was younger, she would run through empty halls and pretend they were full. She would draw pictures of parties that never happened and of friends she never met. She would dream of laughter, light, and love.

When she was younger she had a sister; a sister who was warm and loving and fun, but now hid inside her bedroom day after day; a sister who was the reason why all of the doors and windows stayed shut. She sat and talked to her sister’s door, with or without response, because it was better than talking to herself.

When she was younger she never dreamed that she would leave Arendelle, her sister, her parents - but her parents are dead now. She is still in the dress she buried them in earlier today (even if there were no bodies to bury) and she knows now that her sister is dead to her, too.

Somewhere inside of her she knows that if she stays much longer she may as well be as dead as her parent, that the walls of this palace are just as much as coffin as they are stone and mortar.  

She understands in that moment the difference between living and simply being alive and begins wondering which she wants more.

….

The gates creak as they open, proof of their underuse, and she waits. Crates, barrels, and carts all make their way in, all of the things the castle needs to keep running. For being such a grand estate, the delivery is sparse. With only two royals and few enough servants to count on two hands the upkeep of supplies is limited so she knows she must time this precisely.

She scarcely breathes while waiting for the time to come. Her palms sweat where she clings to the clasp of her cloak. Her hood is drawn high and tight to mask her hair. Her dress is the plainest one she has but she worries it will still catch too much attention. She does not want attention - well - not yet anyway.

But soon, maybe - and even the idea of attention is enough to send a warm spark through her blood.

She will not be alone for long.

….

When she was younger, she had thought  marriage would be the only reason she could ever leave Arendelle. She had thought of leaving the palace to meet a husband or have a prince come live in her courts. Her mother had spoken of it as had her father and while the idea of leaving Arendelle had pained her then - the idea of staying was somehow just as awful.

She wondered who her parents met on their voyages - if they had their eyes on any prince or noble for her or Elsa. She wondered if Elsa married if somehow that would draw her out again - if Anna could somehow ply the new husband to plead her case - but that day never came.

Elsa was never presented.

Nor was she, but Anna never gave up hope that the day would come. However each day she waited the crack in her heart between where she was and where Elsa stood grew wider and wider. The bond between the two became more tenuous with each snub and act of neglect, but Anna had held tightly to the idea that something one day would change.

In some ways, she was right.

One day something did change.

….

It is not so much the deliveries coming in that she is waiting for so much as the waste being taken out. The barrels from the kitchen are loaded onto the supply cart and wheeled out through the same gate the wagon had come in through. The wagon was always checked on the way in, but no one bothered to notice anything going out.

Why would they?

No one noticed her when she was living inside these walls, so why would they notice now that she is gone?

….

It is her birthday which means very little in the day-to-day of palace life but it always feels different to her nonetheless. The birds sing a little sweeter, the air smells a little warmer, and hope shines a little brighter. After all if there ever is a day when Elsa might be kind to her it will be on this day.

Anna wanders the halls with a different bounce in her step just knowing that today will be the day that something will happen. It had been thirteen years since her sister had moved out of their room, a year since their parent’s ship had gone down, and she just knows that something is shifting.

She does not realize that something is within herself.

She has not knocked on Elsa’s door for almost a month - resolutely waiting for the day of her birth to leverage a bit of kindness from her sister. It is a strategy that has worked in the past and she hopes for a repeat performance today.  

It is late afternoon when she knocks on her sister’s door and waits. She knows Elsa is inside. She is always inside those doors, but she does not hear any stirring. She knocks again.

“Hello, Elsa!” She forces the cheerfulness in her voice even as a sickening feeling ripens in her stomach. “I bet you’ll never be able to guess what day it is?”

It is mid-summer and Anna had slept with the windows of her room open. The air had been warm and thick and she loved it. That is why she notices the stinging chill around her as she stands in front of her sister’s room, waiting. She shivers from head to toe.

Is she nervous?

That has to be it.

She has felt this before in front of this door, that same bitter bite of fear that sank its teeth deep into her spirit. She just does not remember ever feeling it as strongly as she does in this moment. Especially since she has been so certain that today of all days she will receive some scrap of affection.

She clears her throat against the unpleasant turn of thought and presses forward with a shaking voice. “It’s my birthday. Chef has made chocolate cake for dessert and I thought - well - I thought we could share it.”

Anna presses her ear against the door. The wood feel like ice against her skin and she flinches away. She rubs thin fingers over the fragile shell of her ear with a frown.

“Elsa. Can you hear me? It’s my birthday and -” She rests her hand on the door handle (it too as chilled as the wood had been) turning it just slightly and -

“Go away, Anna!” The words are striking as much as a fist to the face. She falls back a step.

Anna had prepared for potential silence, for only a few polite words, but she had not prepared for this.

She had not prepared for spite.

“Elsa. Please.” She reaches for the handle again, desperate, but she hears the lock click.

In all their years, though the door had been shut, Anna had never known it to be locked. Never until right now.

When she was nine she had broken her mother’s hand mirror. The hundreds of fragments had shown hundreds of tiny bits of her, all too small to show her as a whole, and she knows now that that is how she feels. Jagged. Sharp. Shattered. Someone with nothing left to lose.

She had run then, only to the gardens, but she feels that same urge welling up inside of her but on a grader scale. She knows that if she runs this time she will not come back, and the finality of that idea makes her panic.

She grabs the handle and shakes the door, banging with her other fist. “Elsa! Please! Just open the door.”

“I said go away!”

She hardly recognizes her sister’s voice, so raw and full of reckoning. Had it always sounded like this? Had she really not heard it in so long she had forgotten its roughness? Had she ever really known her sister’s voice at all?

That thought steals her strength.

How many years had she spent imagining a sister that loved her without ever considering that that sister may never exist?  How many conversations had she had where she voiced both sides? How long had it been since she had actually felt her sister’s touch instead of the imagined hugs she was sure they had shared?

Had Elsa ever loved her at all or was it just another figmint she had created to survive?

She has to know before - 

She slumps against the frigid door - all her power gone - and rests her forehead been flattened palms.

“Elsa, please, I can’t live like this anymore!” She swears she can see each word spelled in frost.

There is a pause - then a voice Anna could only describe as feral comes through the door.

“Then **_leave_**.”

She does.

…

The funniest thing is in the end she does not even run a little.

She had thought perhaps that she would do a lot of running since she is running away. She does not, however.

She walks.

She walks away.

She walks down the streets of Arendelle that she had studied with a spyglass from her window. She walks past shops and patrons about their early morning tasks. She walks to the outskirts, past the outer houses and into the farmland. She walks down a path off the main road towards the woods.

She walks - not runs - away and does not allow herself to look back once. She does, however, allow herself to cry and hiccups at the idea that even while she walks her tears run and she just wishes she could find a place that feels like home.

….

She tumbles back towards the door, hands groping blindly. The expression on Alva’s face is too much to bear. Her gray eyes are all torment and accusation and Anna has seen that look before. It was every look she had seen in her sister’s eyes for years and -

She turns and pushes open the door. She does not run, but her steps are hurried and sharp. She crosses her arms against the cold, unwelcome memories, and lets her feet carry her as they had before. She knows where she is going. She had not been able to face it before, but facing Alva is somehow worse. Speaking words to it - admitting what she thought she had seen - she cannot.

She cannot, but she must know the truth.

She follows the path she remembers from the night before in the darkness. The air does not crush her this time. The world knows itself in the light and finds a balance but she can feel her throat tightening for new reasons. She charges through the cold with a singularity she has not felt since she walked out of the palace gates in the shadow of the waste wagon. By the time Alva catches up she is over halfway to her destination.

Alva grabs at her arm. “Slow up now. There’s no need ta go off in a huff.”

Anna evades her grip, too jagged to accept touch, to form a response.

Alva is silent for a step or two. “What I said before - I was rougher than I shoulda been. I dinna mean… but ye must know - his wound...”

“I know.”

“What do ye know?”

The question rocks Anna for a moment. It is too specific to be coy. Alva is leaning and she remembers monsters and light. She remembers the panic and pain across _Bjarg’s_ face and how she knows she was the cause of it.

She misses a step. Alva catches her.

“Nothing.” She takes Alva’s support, realizing that whatever had passed between them in the cabin had been borne of the same panic she felt now, that Alva may not be an ally but she is not a foe, and steadies herself. “I know nothing, don’t you see? How could I?”

“Ye are more clever than you let on, Logi.” Alva tightens her hold on Anna’s arm and plows forward with her. “Ye best be telling me just what ye know.”

Anna shakes her head. She is uncertain what she knows and how much she should share. The world is both familiar and foreign as they walk. She does not know what she could possibly tell Alva - what would be safe to tell her.

So she says, “I know I must go this way.”

Alva is quiet then, but Anna can tell it will not be for long.

There are no tracks. New snow has fallen, errant flakes still dropping around them, and it has covered whatever steps she had taken the night before. She had struggled too greatly to forget her way, but she can find no proof of it. She knew each scar on every tree and they led her where she needed to be.

It is not far from the cabin. What had felt like miles the night before had only been a matter of yards. That realization alone is enough to stagger her, but she does not flinch.

Things change in the dark.

She knows that.

Still her heart pounds when they come to a tree she knows too well. She had thought of death as she had leant upon it and now - well - now she thinks death again.

She had seen the whole of it: death, life, light. She had seen it all. Yet she understood none of it. Even if she had the words to speak life into it, to tell Alva of the creature, the crystals, the carving, she thinks still she would swallow them.

If she did not speak - she would be like Elsa. The idea alone sends a ripple of ice down her spine.

 _It is to keep you safe._  

It is her mother's voice and she realizes the that there is safety in silence, but there is safety in speaking as well. She thinks of the weight of his head cradled in her palms as he fought to tell her as much of his truth as he could.

He tried. What had Elsa done? Nothing. She had done nothing.

Anna will not do nothing.

Anna leaves Alva and digs into the banks at the foot of the tree. Her bare hands tingle and cramp. The scar of her burned palm tightens but she ignore it. That scar, too new and perfect, is inasmuch proof as are the things for which she searches.

She pauses when she hits metal. Anna had only been digging a moment when she struck the lantern. It had felt longer. She wonders just how much she can trust her sense of time, if time really means anything at all, what any of this could mean.

She does not understand.

Her head spins.

If the lantern is here then -

She tears through the snow for the blade, hoping against hope it would not be there.

“How now, ya? Ye’ll freeze up soon without yer cloak and gloves.” Anna can hear the funny edge to Alba’s voice. “Are you sure ye’ve no gone daft?”

Anna feels she may have as her fingers graze the flat edge of the blade. She freezes for a moment. The weight of it all too heavy to carry for if these things were here….

She dashes the few paces from her spot to where she was certain the monster had held _Bjarg_. It had been too large to not leave any trace and yet all she finds is pristine snow. She looks around and only finds more of the same.

There are no tracks, no snapped branches, or great trenches from where the giant she remembered may have tread. All there is is snow and silence. She could not have both imagined the night’s adventure and also left behind real proof of its happening, but she wants both to be true. Needs both to be true. Perhaps her wound had poisoned her mind, the stress of the trials had broken her and now she creates wild fantasies.

She looks to Alva - trying to keep her eyes from wildness but failing. The young woman stands bewildered, hands on her hips.

“Do we search then for a hunter’s cache? For if so I am certain I can find ye plenty and much better than this.” She gestures to where Anna had left the lantern and blade but even in her humor Anna can see her waver. Her question is insincere.

“What is this place?” That fractured feeling, the same she felt at nine years old, the same she felt at Elsa’s door, erupting in her chest. “What is it named?”

She looks at Alva and for a moment she thinks she sees a reflection - that same shattering shown in her gray eyes - but she cannot be certain.

She does not know how she can ever be certain again after this. The foundation beneath her feet shift.

“This place?” Alva cocks her head to the side.

“Yes. This place here. These trees.”

Alva hesitates. Anna notices. She has hidden the truth enough to know the signs of it.

“It’s the woods. Kristoff’s lands,” Anna almost flinches at his given name. This is a name she did not know him by, a stranger’s name but still very much his.

She focuses past the discomfort.

“What does that mean?” The questions bubble out of her and she cannot stop them.

Alva cannot demand answers the same way _Bjarg_ can, so Anna asks but it is clear this is not the first time Alva has played this game.

Alva pauses. The suspension between them stretches and grows and Anna shivers. She should have taken her cloak at the very least, but there is no sense to voicing that concern now as Alva shakes her head.

“Ye no have asked him, have ye?”

Anna’s teeth chatter, and she waits just one moment longer than she should before: “Asked what?”

Alva knows Anna knows.

Still Anna asks.

Alva goes to where Anna had abandoned the blade and the lantern after discovery. She picks them up.

“I canna say what is no mine to tell.” Alva extends a gloved hand. “Come now, strange one. Ye’re half frozen.”

Anna remembers how just a week ago she stood in the hollow less clothed then she is now and expected to endure it. Though she knows now it is colder than it was then she feels it less now. A strange numbness settles into her bones.

She thinks she can hear her own heart beat.

She thinks of years of silence and how she had been expected to accept them.

She thinks of her sister, of secrets, and feels her mind splitting open at the seams.

She is exhausted with the unspoken.

“What is so horrible here that none will speak on it?” Anna asks, daring questions in return even more than she dares answers. “What lives here that no one will give it a name?”

Alva’s brow furrows, but not in contempt. Instead her face takes the shape of great sympathy.

“Oh. It be named.” Alva says but Anna can see the uncertainty sitting on her tongue and Anna wonders just when she had learned to read the thoughts of others as _Bjarg_ did.

“But you cannot put a voice to it.”

Alva shakes her head and now Anna wonders when she had learned to curb every word that came from her mouth. She wonders when she learned that words are a form a currency as much a coin is and she must keep reserves. Any withdraw will cost and she must weigh that expense.

“We should get home then.” The cold that had felt so far only moments before washes over her in a deep wave and she does not like it. The cold reminds her of too many things she would rather not remember.

Alva waits for Anna to meet her and they head back through the tracks they had already laid. Through tracks that should have been there from before but were not. Through tracks that made her question her every thought, every impulse, and she thinks of the hidden place in _Bjarg’s_ chest. She thinks of secrets hidden deep inside. She wonders just how much Alva knows.

They are just a few moments from the cabin when Anna slows them just a bit and looks to Alva.

“I should ask after his mother.”

It is advice that seems a lifetime ago, but she has learned the economy of words. She has learned all she can say without speaking.

“Ye should.” Alva grips Anna’s arm that much tighter.

It is the answer she wants.

It is the answer she dreads.

She wishes she possessed Elsa’s cool discernment, Alva’s bold frankness, Magni’s towering command so that she could actually ask _Bjarg_ the questions burning through her heart, but here she is. There is no way out for months and even then it would be a terrible risk with the mess she had caused in Arendelle upon their last visit. Still - a scarf and some ingenuity and she could be on a ship as easily as -

No.

There is no way. Not now for months now. She will find another port, but not in winter. She is resolved to stay at least till the weather turns. Whatever idea she had had of leaving is cut short by the limitations she face. Even if she tried to run she has no idea how to find a harbor that will not be searching for her. That is something that will have to wait.

But wait until what, she wonders?

Her stomach turns.

She cannot ask any more questions that have no answers.

For the first time in her young life she feels something she had never felt.

For the first time: Anna heart is tired.

…

They return to the cabin with the lantern and blade in tow. The funny silence persists as the go through the door. The items Alva brought still lay on the table, the fire is still strong, and nothing is the same except that he is awake.

The sight of him up and sitting on the edge of the bed makes her heart race. He looks horrible. The skin of across his cheeks is tight, drawn, and she wants to push back the hair from where it sticks to his forehead, temple, neck. The bandage around his head throws strange shadows over his face.

Alva passes her going about her business as if nothing strange is happening. Anna only has a flash to consider this before she meets his gaze. Her knees go soft. She braces a hand on the wall. She realizes that she had accepted she would never see his eyes again and the unequivocal way they fix on her make her tremble.

“I have brought ye the balancing due you.” Alva says to _Bjarg_ as she unbundles what she hadn’t before on the table. “A young doe has been added to your fold.”

Even as Alva speaks he pays her no heed. His eyes stays fixed on Anna and she swallows against the building pressure of his attention. She wishes she could tell him to lay back and rest, but she knows that is futile request. He will do what he will and nothing she says will change that whether he should or shouldn’t.

He says nothing.

She follows suit.

What can she say to him now after she has seen what she has, now that she knows what she does?

Alva seems unphased at his reticence but does not linger to warm herself by the fire. Once she has unwrapped what she had brought and gathered her things she returns to the door where Anna stands.

“Nadir suffers.” She keeps her gaze neutrally fastened where her hand rests on the door past Anna’s shoulder. “Not as much as many of us would like, but he suffers still.” Her voices betrays how much it costs her to speak against her brother. “We are all glad for the mercy ye showed him.”

And then she is gone. Anna has no time to catch her sleeve, her eye, and she is alone with him.

Her gaze goes to the fire as the door shuts. The crackle from the flame is the only sound and part of her wishes she could chase after Alva. She does not fear for her safety but yet she feels unsafe. What she had seen, what is proven by the lantern and blade left on the table, make her heart stutter.

She lifts her chin and swallows. “How do you feel?”

He nods his head towards the water barrel beside her. “Thirsty.”

They breathe into the moment, eyes locked, before she turns and dips the ladle to draw a fresh pool for him to drink. She cups her spare hand beneath the ladle, the metal warmer than her chilled fingers, and brings it to him to drink keeping her hands from trembling as much as she can.

She sits beside him, careful to keep a small space between them, as she lifts the ladle to his lips. He does not take it from her. Instead he lets her tilt it so he can drink deeply from what she offers until the charity is gone. She withdraws the metal from his mouth and watches as he licks his lips. The color has not come back to them, but she knows it will. She knows why it will.

“How do you feel now?” Her corset feels unreasonably tight, breath shallow.

He wipes a bruised hand over his mouth and nods. “Better.”

His answer could mean so many things. She look at him, questions lingering on her lips, and is met by his insistent mouth. The shape and weight of it is becoming so familiar that she opens to him without hesitation. All thoughts of question or reason are knocked far away and she sinks into the reassurance he offers through his kiss. She thinks that maybe, just maybe this can be enough. She thinks perhaps she does not need answers so long as she has him, but somewhere she knows that is not true.

At least not forever.

But now, for the moment, it will do. After all, this can not be her forever, but it will do for now.

He pulls back, hot breath skimming her cheek. “You are well?”

She almost laughs that he still asks after her well being when he is so clearly the patient.

“I am well.” She stands, flustered by his question, turns her back to him to return the ladle as much as to hide the confusion she knows he will read upon her face. “I am well, indeed.”


	23. Chapter 23

She brings him stew to eat in bed despite his protests of being well enough to eat at the table. He may be well enough, but she is not prepared to admit that. Anna has still not seen his wound as Alva had, but she knows in her heart that it is healed through just as she had said. The thought should bring her joy but she instead it makes her chest tighten in panic.

His healing is impossible, except it isn’t.

What she had seen last night had been real, even if she still has no idea what exactly she had seen, and that unsettles the very foundations of her spirit.

She can not have seen what she had, yet here she is. Here is he - and she supposed in another place or time he would have passed in the night. She does not know how to meet his eyes with this knowledge. She does not know what to say without leaning on walls they both have fortified beyond penetration.

She just does not know: what to do, what to say, how to love him.

Her entire life has been saturated with the idea of her not knowing but this - this - is different and she can feel it. She has never known why her sister stopped loving her, and she never will. She has never known just how her parents left this earth, and she never will. She had not chosen her sister. She had not chosen her parents. They had been chosen for her at birth. She supposes in some ways she had not chosen _Bjarg_ , but in more ways she had. She had chosen him, chooses him now, but she is learning more by the day how little she knows of him or his world - of any of the world.

She cannot help but wonder: is this what it means to live outside of the palace?

Is the rest of this world so strange and nonsensical?

Is there any place in this entire world where she can feel settled, whole, complete as she does  inside these four walls?

How much longer can she keep making this choice?

How much longer can she stay?

She does not know and that’s the worst of it.

For whatever strange secret it is he holds, she feels hers are more dangerous.

If she were ever found with him -

Well. It would make her introduction to this society seem a warm welcome.

She envies him for that.

Despite his isolation, his strange surroundings,

She feels he has always been who he is. She, however, has been anything but. How could she possibly tell him who she is - her birthright - now? The time for that has long passed. The time for her to linger her has also long passed and yet here she is carefully placing the gifts from Alva and her household in their appropriate spots. Here she is ignoring the way he watches her with a bowl of stew dutifully balanced on his lap.

Here she is.

And she thinks she feels more like herself than she ever has, but it is not right. How can she feel like herself all while hiding who she really is?

She wishes there was a way to tell him.

She wishes he would find a way to draw it from her, that she could crawl inside of him and make him understand just what he asks when he asks her name.

She thinks of his mother and perhaps… perhaps whatever he answered would cue her. Perhaps if spoke of his mother she could speak of hers, drop crumbs till the trail led to the inevitable conclusion. Perhaps, but then what of the things not only that she cannot say but those she does not want to hear?

She remembers his talk of magic just the morning before - a lifetime ago - and her shoulders feel heavy.

It can not be. Magic does not exist. She knows that but she also knows what she saw in the woods.

Nothing make sense, yet everything does.

Her thoughts churn like a ship in a storm and for a moment she considers her parents, what she can say of them to him. She tries to remember their faces, the color of their eyes, and she can but the details are fading. She cannot quite place the length of her father’s nose or where her mother’s face crinkled when she smiled. Everything about her old life is unraveling a bit, she realizes. She cannot quite place where each painting hangs in the gallery or what was in each of the drawers of her wardrobe.

It has only been a matter of months but already she is forgetting.

How long will it take before she forget him too when she leaves?

The idea stings and she jumps away from it.

Distracted, she goes to return the lantern and sword to their places. When she opens his chest his voice stops her.

“How now, what is that?”

He remains abed, but not reclining. His feet are on the ground, one pant leg ripped and crusted with blood below the knee, and though she knows he is out of immediate danger she can swear he looks ready to tip over at any moment.

“I believe this belongs here.” She motions towards the chest with the blade. “This is where I found it.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. His spine grows tighter as he straightens with a grimace.  The bowl in his lap wobbles precariously as he seems to have forgotten it.

“You found it there now - inside of the chest?”

Heat rises to her cheeks, flustered by his questions. She turns away and busies herself with replacing the blade. She fumbles with the contents of the chest, trying to make a proper space for the weapon in the jumbled mess she’d left the night before.

“No. Of course not.” It is simple enough, her answer.

What lays between them unspoken is the complicated matter.

She expects him to leave it there, to fester in the space between them, but he surprises her. He always surprises her.

“If not in the chest where it belongs then where, _min lille venn_?”

Her hands tremble at the rasp in his voice, unfamiliar in the form of a question. She can feel him leaning again, but as much on his own walls as hers and her heart quickens. She keeps her back to him as she answers, unable to meet his gaze.

“In the woods, several paces north of this place.” She lay the sword next to the other weapons  and tries not to think of the hidden place inside, tries not to sound as if there is anything odd about her reply. “That is where I found it.”

“What a strange thing to find a blade from the chest lost in the wood as if it traveled there on its own. As if it were in two places at once.” He says and though it is not a question she feels compelled to answer.

“It was first in the chest. I took it out when I went to the woods to - well -” she shuts the chest, unable to find the words - to put voice to what she exactly she had seen. The trembling of her hands now moving up her arms as she remembers the weight of the darkness. She must finish what she has started.

She knows just what she is admitting as the words build inside of her, knows how little needs to be said for him to understand. She steels her courage but still turns on shaking knees to meet his eyes. The line between anticipation and dread is a razor’s edge and she is teetering as her next words fall from her tongue.

“I took it to the woods last night and I suppose I dropped it there,” she says and he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t so much as blink but see gears shifting behind his eyes. “I dropped it when I was searching for you.”

The cabin walls close in. The air grows thin. Her heart blocks her throat. He rubs his fingers across his mouth and she knows he is weighing his words just as she had.

“You searched for me.” He is careful not to ask, but she can almost feel him taking her by the hand, leading her to what they both need her to say. He sets the stew on his lap in the straw beside his feet. “But last night I slept. I slept here. Here is where you would have found me.”

“You woke in the night. You woke and left and then I searched for you.” It is as if she stands before a dam holding back a flood of words and she cannot keep from chipping at the wall. “I searched for you in the wood and that is where I found you.”

The air goes out of the room. His eyes haze with an impenetrable cloud as she sees the wild thing rise to the surface. Whatever had been churning in his mind before clearly clicked into place at her declaration and even though she is across the cabin from him she can feel that shift as though he was right in front of her.

He knows what she saw.

She knows that she saw it.

She does not know if the expression on his face is one of anger or relief or maybe neither. Maybe both. Her palms itch. Her mouth is full of chalk. The rush of her blood leaves her dizzy. Her knees go soft and she sits back on the lid of his chest.

“I found you.” She repeats, holding his gaze. “Just as you once found me.”

That first day in the woods feels like another world. She had trusted him to protect her then just as she trusts him now. He will not break her but the expression on his face tells her that what comes next will not be without pain.

“I will always find you. I will find you as long as you will let me.” She can hear the strain in his voice, the need for her to understand. “ _Logi_ …”

Before he can go on there is a long, mournful bellow in the distance. A low cry the likes of which she has never heard and a dark twist overcomes his face.

“The Elderhorn,” his answer preempts her question. “Go ready Sven for us to ride. Someone has died.”

….

They ride with her back pressed to his chest. His arms are firm at her sides where they came around to hold the reins. She can feel him breathing, can feel each time he heaves a sigh as if the words he wants to say are stuck and trying to escape. She thinks perhaps she knows for once just what he is feeling.

He had not spoken since he commanded her to prepare their mount, but she had seen in his eyes a thousand words when she had returned to the cabin to fetch him. He had collected a clean bandage and was binding his leg at the table when she walked in. It had taken her longer than it should have to fit the bridle to the reindeer’s head. She had never done it herself, only seen him do it, but she should have gone faster. She should have gotten here to help him.

“Sven is ready.” She barely trusted her voice.

He had looked at her then and that was when she had seen it. That was when she knew that the wall was cracked. If she leaned it would crumble.

She can feel the crack even now in their silence, knows what she has seen through it, feels his vulnerability in it. Beyond that she feels the idea that this damage would not destroy him, would not destroy her, but still she knows she is not ready to hear what comes next. She is not ready to hear what she knows she must.

This place is not what it seems.

He is not what he seems.

She cannot fault him for this as it is no more than what she has hidden in her own sense, but still she wonders if he can hide the very fabric of the universe from her sight then what else could be lurking in the shadows?

She loves him. She trusts him. Yet there is so much she does not yet know or understand.

She wonders if she will feel the same when he finally puts voice to the truth they both already know.

She wonders if he would still love her if she told him her own origin, if he really loves her at all or if he simply is fulfilling his word to keep her safe.

She pushes these thoughts aside and instead thinks of their current purpose. They had both climbed onto the reindeer on with the aid of a turned bucket. She had looked away while he mounted, knowing that while he was out of danger he was not whole and that he holds his weakness as shame. Then she had done the same, also not quite herself yet, and they were off.

She is not certain where they are going. She has learned much in her time here but still the path is unfamiliar. It very well may be the snow or perhaps she did not know these woods quite as well as she thought.

Wherever they are going she knows the cause: death. She wonders however just what part she and _Bjarg_ could play in this scenario. She tries to not dwell on that idea too long.

She hears the wails before she sees their makers. The sounds of anguish are a familiar language in her heart and she picks up on them long before the enter into a deep thicket of pine. The cries climb through the fringed branches, across the snow, and pierce her skin. She feels _Bjarg_ tighten behind her and knows he hears what she hears, wonders what she wonders:

 _Is it Nadir_?

Alva had said he faired well enough, but they both know how quickly fates change in this place. Anna cannot help but wonder if _Bjarg_ will count Nadir’s death as a blessing or a burden - or both. She’d seen how they fought, the pain behind the blows, and knows that no one can fight as they did without grief. No one can hurt another like that unless they first had been hurt.

She thinks that maybe they are headed in the direction of the chieftain’s longhouse, but she does not remember these trees. The branches reach out and whisper along her legs where they rest just in front of his but they are all that is quiet. The sounds of mourning grow with each of Sven’s paces until _Bjarg_ pulls on his reins.

Sven stops.

She feels and hears _Bjarg_ draw a ragged breath.

“We dismount here.” She has the feeling he speaks this as much for his benefit as hers. “When we come upon them - do not speak to anyone.”

It is not as strange a command as it could be and she does not question it. She has asked enough questions today. The thought sets her pulse racing. She cannot fathom what he might have said given the chance, what she might have, and she wonders if the moment is gone now. She wonders if they will ever find it again.

He dismounts first. A choked grunt escapes clenched teeth. Whatever she had witnessed, what he knows she saw, may have brought him back from death’s door but it had not made everything right. It had not taken his measure of pain.

She slides down after him, careful with her skirts, and his hands catch her waist to ease her decent. He has done this before, helped her in this way, but this time she feels her cheeks explode with heat at his touch. Thankfully he does not stay. She does not know how she could bear it if he did. Instead he turns and leads Sven to a low lying branch and secures him amidst the thick fur of the pines.

“We will not linger.” _Bjarg_ speaks to the reindeer as he strokes its muzzle the turns to look at her. “Let us go.”

He leads with slow steps to hide his limp and she follows uncertain of what she is about the behold. They pass through a particularly thick clump of heavy fur pine, the low heavily fringed lying branches grab at her as passes. Snow falls off and soaks her bottoms of her skirts. Her boots keep her feet warm and she is again reminded of all the things he has done for her without thought of thanks or repayment.

She thinks of him.

Of what she knows.

Of what she saw.

Of how she feels.

And she follows him. She thinks that, maybe, she will follow him anywhere he goes. She thinks that, maybe, that can be enough. That even in this strange place where she does not understand the customs or culture just having him next to her will be enough.

Can it be enough?

Can she be enough?

Can love be enough?

Her train of thought is shattered as they break into a clearing. It is large. Large enough that she cannot see all she can tell for edges are blurred pines in the distance - dark against the white forest floor. All around them are strange mounds of snow, some up to a foot higher than any other place, all taking oblong oval shapes while traced together. They are snow covered rocks she realizes as they cross halfway through the clearing and she sees a mass of people shuffling around the latest in these constructions. It is still a bit away, the walk already done by many and she can see the crushed snow from all directions leading to a single fixed point. The crowd is substantial, a hundred gathered if she has a guess, and between their shifting figures she can make out a structure beyond the stones.

Between the shuffle of legs and skirts she sees an unlit pyre but cannot make out who is atop it. A chill races down her spine as she realizes that someone will be atop it. Pyres have not been used in Arendelle in centuries. Beyond that she has seen death firsthand now, but always in the moment. Always as a matter of self-preservation. She has never seen a lifeless body just because someone died. Her steps grow as stiff as _Bjarg’s._

There are a mix of different cries now. Some are dramatic, loud, and expressive. Other are muted sniffles and sobs that she knows are no less valid. The sound of them mask their approach as they skirt through grave circles. When they draw near enough that the mourners take notice she is surprised how many faces she recognizes from the hollow. The moment they observe her, _Bjarg_ , their eyes shift from anguish to distrust and fear. She shrinks behind _Bjarg_ and their distrusting curiosity. If their reaction deterred _Bjarg_ from whatever intent he had set for this venture, he does not show it. Instead he cuts through the throng with her following with downcast eyes.

When they make it to the front of the crowd - that is when she sees the body. It is not Nadir. It is instead a young woman, perhaps close to her age, with swollen stomach and dark hair braided prettily around her small, pale, face. Had this been one of the women that had watched in the hollow? Had she watched with those now forever closed eyes the suffering and humiliation she had endured without sound or objection? Had she beheld Anna’s otherness the way that Anna now beholds the suffering of those around her? Did she feel the strange mix of detached sympathy that now wells up within Anna when she had seen her?

Anna’s eyes stay fixed on the body, so still and pretty on the pyre. This death is so different than the others she has witnessed, so devoid of cost or meaning. This death is not vengeful or within her home. This is death without context Anna’s eyes shift from the girl’s face to her protruding belly and then back again.

There had been a child, she knows. Though she has never known a pregnant woman - had never seen one outside of a book or painting - she recognizes this fact. For this her heart twists. Someone hasn’t died. _Someones_ has, and that tips her over the edge.

She rips her eye away and sees the same horrible terror on each face around her. She sees Magni and Trygve are there, but do not stand together. She sees Ketil, fat face swollen even more with tears. She sees Sigfrid, stoic and stern. Two stand out as being particularly distraught: the cotter Ragi who had come to _Bjarg_ ’s cabin in search of ice, and Alva.

Both are drawn, lean, and ashen with streaked cheeks and cavernous eyes. She does not understand, cannot suppose context. She shrinks behind _Bjarg_ before Alva makes eye contact, uncertain if their strange friendship is allowed here. She doesn’t dare look at anyone.

 _Bjarg_ steps towards the pyre and for once she does not follow him.

“How now,” it is a deep voice that sounds the first words spoken to them. She looks up and sees that Ragi has stepped forward from his stupor. “What brings ye here?”

She thinks it strange that Ragi speaks and not Magni, not Sigfrid, but neither of the large men make a move. Their eyes stay downcast. Though they stood at the front she notes that the have no real part of this. She also notes that Sigfrid and Ketil stand with Alva while Magni stands alone.

“Honor,” _Bjarg_ removes his mittens, drops them to the ground, and holds up his hands in surrender. “And a gift to help your wife pass to her next life.”

Ragi is silent then.

It takes a moment to process what _Bjarg_ has said. The body on the pyre was not only a woman, a mother, but Ragi’s wife. She has a name. She had a life before this moment. She had hopes and dreams and oh - Anna’s stomach clenches. She is going to be sick, but she breathes.

This is not her death.

This is not her mourning.

She has had time for that, but she forsook it for a chance at something more.

This woman would never have that chance.

 _Bjarg_ reaches into the pouch at his waist and removes several coins she did not know he had. She thinks of the coins she has, hidden at her waist beneath her skirts, and realizes she has not considered them since before their trip to Arendelle. It makes senses that he would have coin, more so in many ways than it does for her to have any. He needs it for trade, for life, but she knows the amount his withdraws is generous.

 _Bjarg_ steps to the pyre, close to the still small woman that Anna will never know, and places the coins just above the large swell of her belly. The jingle of the metal can be heard loud and clear and she realizes then that the whole assembly has hushed for this display. She lingers as close to the fringe as she can without being part of it and watches, uncertain of this custom.

She thinks of her parent’s funeral.

There had been no bodies though there had been ceremonies. There had been processions and programs but she had gone through them alone. Elsa had not attended on event. She looks at this small, sad woman on the pyre, her story cut far too short, and wonders at the amount of people in attendance. The people had mourned her parents to be certain, but Anna had been alone in it.

She still is alone in it.

No one could understand what it had meant to endure the pressure of the death of a king and a queen, a mother and father, all at once. No one but Elsa, but she had found no comfort. She never will. She has left that life, but still she thinks of her father. Her mother. She still thinks of loss, understands it, sees it in new light now.

“See your father, see your mother.” _Bjarg_ says and steps back, retrieving his mittens. He turns to her and nods. She understands. This is all they have come to do. This is all they are allowed. She may not know why, but she understands.

Her eyes catch upon the crowd once more. There are so many faces she does not know, is certain she will never know. Her eyes catch Alva’s tear worried ones by accident. She wishes to give even the slightest comfort to the bold woman, but Alva gives the slightest shake of her head and Anna knows it will bring only more trouble that good.

She turns and follows _Bjarg_ down the path they had come.

He help her mount Sven though she knows he shouldn’t, can see the strain on his face beneath his bandage, and hears his hard exhale as he swings up behind her. She has so much to say - so much unknown still - but she knows the reason he brought her was to show her something. She knows he brought her to show her things she can not understand.

She knows he brought her to say the things he can not say.

The ride home is slow and silent.

She tries not to think on what she has seen, what harsh blessing it may have been to be there, and focuses instead on the warmth of him behind her. It is all she can do, she realizes. It is all he can.

In some lifetime that may have been enough but now she feels the silence burn through her as surely as any fire man could make. Her tongue scalds on the words she does not say, the questions she does not ask. She thinks of what they left behind before the Elderhorn sounded and something close to anger rises up in her chest. Resentment? Indignation? Had part of her actually desired to finally speak her truth - to learn his? She is uncertain and that uncertainty binds her tongue.

They arrive home in silence.

Sven stops at the pull on his reins but _Bjarg_ ’s arms do not fall from her sides. They stay there keeping her steady, back pressed against his firm chest. She thinks maybe he is as reluctant as she, despite her unease, to lose contact and to return inside where nothing is spoken.

She looks at their door and thinks that this small cabin is becoming quite crowded with secrets.

She shifts in attempts to adjust her skirt and it is enough to break whatever spell it was that held them there.

He drops his arms to allow her to escape. She turns and slides off of the reindeer, trying her best to not be disappointed. He follows her lead, but she still takes the reins.

“Go,” she says. “Rest. I will see him through.”

His expression suggests that he would like to debate her on the topic, but he doesn’t. He turns and goes inside the cabin and leaves her to return Sven to the shed. In all truth she welcomes the chance the breathe away from him for a moment and not just for what she had seen in the graveyard.

No.

What they had both admitted beforehand.

She knows there is no return from it now. They both know what they know.

She half expects him to appear in the shed doorway as she unbridles Sven. It takes special care and effort to pay no attention to the chest in the corner. It takes special care to remember to breathe.

For one moment she thinks of just keeping on Sven’s bridle and riding from there before anyone realizes. She thinks that running will never be easier than when she can take a mount and he is crippled, but even the idea makes her stomach twist and not just for the impracticality of leaving when winter still lived there. She cannot abide the idea of not seeing him again, of never hearing his voice.

She does not know when this happened, does not particularly care, but as she pulls off Sven’s bridle she knows the truth. She does not want to run. She wants to stay.

She wants to stay with him.

Despite everything she knows and does not know, despite and she has seen and has not, she wants to be his wife.

Her blood heats at the word, the idea.

She hangs Sven’s bridle and gives him feed. She spreads some for the chickens and goat and refuses to allow her eye to wander to the darkest corner. Even with her desire to stay she will not tempt fate.

When she makes it back inside from the shed she finds him sitting heavily on the bench by the table, elbows resting on knees with shoulders slumped. He looks older, she thinks, than he did when they left. Something in the pinch at the corner of his eyes makes her think so as if time had found them by that pyre and touched him. She wants to touch him.

She joins him where he sits. He looks at her from behind a hunched shoulders. The weight of his expression staggers her breath. She moves before she has time to think why she does.

Her hands lift to where she had secured the bandage around his head. She is surprised when her fingers do not tremble to unfasten the knot even though she can feel his weighted gaze upon her. When the bandage falls away he straightens a bit and cheats towards her to present himself for the inspection they both know is coming.

She traces his features first with her eyes taking in the size and shape of them with fresh intent. Then with the tips of her fingers she skates across the width of his brow, his cheekbone, his scruffy jaw. He stays perfectly still, completely in control as only a strong man can be. She pushes back the heavy locks of hair hanging at his temple, the place that just the day before had been open and oozing, and finds what she knew she would but still does not understand. She cups her scared palm over the healed skin and meets his eyes.

The expression she finds there sends a tremor through her core. Her hand slides from his temple to hold his cheek, keeping his gaze set on her.

“How old are you?” She asks instead of the question that burns between them, instead of demanding how this is possible because she has seen the giants.

He holds her gaze. “Around two and twenty, I suppose.”

 _So young_ \- she thinks. So young to carry the burden she feels in his mind, the weight of choices that cling to broad shoulders.

“And you?”

She pauses a moment, remembering her most recent unhappy anniversary of her birth, of Elsa’s hard words.

_Then **leave**._

Her lip trembles.

“Eight and ten,” but she feels older, too. She feels much, much older, and realizes that the amount of life lived matters more than an age and she feels she had lived ten years in five months. She tries to think of something good to soften the unintentional blow of his question. “I was born under the summer sun.”

He lifts a hand and touches her braid near her shoulder. “That explains the warmth in your hair. Nothing so bright could come from winter.”

She thinks of Elsa, all white and blue, and how she had come on the darkest day of the year. She wonders if that is why she is so cold. She tries not to consider it and instead considers what she has here, what could be hers now.

“I was born to my mother, Iduna,” She doesn’t understand why her voice chokes itself to a whisper, but it does. She thinks of his mother, Ragna, and the question she knows must come. She cannot take that yet, however, so instead she gives:  “She is dead, as is my father. I loved them. I loved them both with my entire self.”

She sees the shift in his expression - and understanding of the similar - of what she has just given him. She hears his exhalation as if something or someone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

His hand strays from her shoulder, ghosts up her neck, her jaw, the until a heavily calloused thumb traces the shape of her bottom lip. She feels his fingers curl beneath her chin. His warm whiskey eyes latch to hers.

She senses what will come next, what he will want to know. She feels the inquiry of love, the profession, dancing there at the front of his mind and she had not meant for this to take this turn. She had meant to speak of her parentage, to prompt him to speak of his, but she sees her mistake now.

Such a word as love can never be spoken in a space such as this. Not when so much is still unknown. Not until she is certain this can be forever. Not until she is certain she can stay as much as she wants to.

She returns his gaze and realizes that he is her savior in this, that there is no need of words.

She has only done this once, initiated an embrace, but she hopes she has learned enough to allow it to stick. She hopes he wants her this way. She leans up and gasps with how quickly his mouth takes hers. She is so used to rejection, to obstinance instead of acceptance, that even now his acceptance catches her off guard and she wilts under the heat of it.

The searching fever of it surprises her but he hooks the small of her back to keep her from falling away. She can taste a mix of gratitude and regret on his tongue, can feel the hard and rough throb of his pulse where the heel of her palm presses beneath his jaw. Beyond all that she can feel something awakening inside of herself.

He pulls her closer, hip to hip, but it is still not enough. Her skin burns through her clothes. The hand on her back strays to her side and pulls. She cannot resist and before she knows it her legs swing up over his lap as her hands clasp the iron bar of his neck trying to draw him closer. Her neck cranes as far back as it can forcing her to gasp into his mouth, and at this new angle she realizes that though she is small her size does not matter. All that matters is who has the power.

She knows it is both of them.

His hands roam, restlessly charting her back and sides. She can hardly feel them through the confines of her clothing but she can feel that yes. Yes this is something he wants. He wants her.

A wave of relief and terror wash through her as she breaks away on a gasp and takes one breath, two. The world around her is a dizzy whirl.

He gives her time, but on the fifth breath he brushes her mouth with his - a question - and she again is lost in the taste and feel of him - an answer. She has never thought that people may have their own taste but she knows now they do. He tastes like metal and minerals and fire. He tastes like rich earth and rain and rare thunderstorms. His hand stray past proper boundaries, clenching, and the sensation of it is too much. She drops her head, gasping against the hot skin of his throat, but he gives her no respite.

Instead he hooks a finger beneath her chin and levels his gaze with hers, the wild thing ripping behind his eyes, and:

“What is your name?”

She does not shrink this time, knows that there is permission in his question just as much as pressure, and looks straight back at him amid ragged breaths.

She hardly recognizes her own voice, her courage:

“Who was your mother?”


End file.
